


Any Other Name

by tastewithouttalent



Series: Nothing in the World [1]
Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Best Friends, Blood, Broken Bones, Bruises, Childhood Friends, Concussions, Cooking, Developing Relationship, Emotional Manipulation, Friends to Lovers, Grinding, Hand Jobs, Holding Hands, Insomnia, Jealousy, Knives, Living Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Masochism, Mutual Pining, Revenge, Sadism, Smoking, Snow, Strength Kink, Sushi, Underage Drinking, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-04-24 11:06:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 62
Words: 115,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4917229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"That angry gaze slides sideways, out the window to the setting-sun gold by the front gate, and when he grimaces again it has nothing to do with Izaya, the fists he’s made easing into slackness at whatever it is he is seeing out past the glass. 'Wanna start a club?'" A change of schools results in more changes than just location.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Entertainment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Claws](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Claws/gifts).



Orihara Izaya likes people.

It’s nothing personal. If it were personal he could muster up something more specific, probably, a touch of condescending amusement or maybe even the warm burn of hatred to flush his skin hot with passion. But he learned years ago that individual relationships with others aren’t worth his time, don’t offer enough amusement or value to be worth the frustration of trying to sustain them, and by the time he started middle school he had long since given up on trying to maintain friendships with people whose interests ran so narrow and uninspired. Better to sit still in class, to let the chatter and conversation of dozens of voices wash over him at once, to pursue the beauty of an ocean instead of the limitations of a stream. There’s no need to form relationships, not yet; better to wait out the rush of desperate friendships that appear at the beginning of the school year, to let the balance settle into a pattern he can make out before he steps in to disrupt it. It might take a week, might take a month, but it doesn’t matter; Izaya’s willing to wait, can muster up patience for this for the advantage it will give him later.

He’s thinking about this on his way down the hall at the end of the first day, overheard conversations filling his thoughts with hypothetical dynamics and possible advantages. He doesn’t look up at the pair of shoes approaching, barely sidesteps to dodge the second-year coming towards him. Upperclassmen will factor into his plans later, if all at; it’s his year he’s interested in first, the dynamics of those he half-knows instead of strangers that he’s drawn to. Time enough to consider the rest of the school once he has a read on those most immediate to his own existence.

“Hey.”

Izaya doesn’t look up. He doesn’t know any upperclassmen, he’s sure of it, there’s no way that voice is talking to him.

“Hey.” A pause, another step, and then, “ _Oi_ ,” sharp and so loud Izaya looks up on reflex, surprise moving him against his intent.

The second year is glaring at him. He’s a little taller than Izaya, a little more filled out in the shoulders; Izaya can see the line of his jaw set clear under his skin from the way the other boy is scowling at him. Dark hair, dark eyes; nothing at all remarkable about him, really, except for the undisguised irritation in his expression and the bruises and half-healed scrapes mottling all the skin Izaya can see. A delinquent, then. That’s not particularly remarkable, either.

“Were you talking to me?” Izaya drawls, tipping his head just to the side to see if he can fan the spark of anger in the other’s expression into an open flame. He holds the pause for a beat, another, then finally appends “ _Senpai_ ” as if he has just noticed the gap in their ages.

He gets a hiss in response, teeth bared on the edge of violence, hands forming into fists, and for a moment Izaya is bracing for a punch, ready for the quiet of the hallway to shatter with a growl from the other boy. But then that angry gaze slides sideways, out the window to the setting-sun gold by the front gate, and when the other boy grimaces again it has nothing to do with Izaya, the fists he’s made easing into slackness at whatever it is he is seeing out past the glass.

“Wanna start a club?”

Izaya stares for a moment. The question is unexpected, even amid the various scenarios he’s considered, and it’s impossible to parse the words into meaning for the first few seconds. The other boy’s gaze comes back to him, whatever anger was in his eyes dampened to resignation, and Izaya is going to be really offended by that once he figures out what they’re talking about.

“Is this some kind of entrance test?” he asks, glancing at the bruises laid into the other boy’s knuckles and trying to guess how fast an attack might be forthcoming, how quickly he’ll need to move to dodge it.

“Anything you want,” the boy says, and he’s still not moving, his hands are still relaxed. “Biology, or karaoke, or sports.”

“You want to start a baseball team or something?” Izaya says. “I’m fast, but I can’t cover half the positions on my own.”

This gets him an eyeroll, a huff of frustration far more satisfying than the steady concentration he was receiving originally. “There’s already a baseball team,” the other boy says, as if Izaya is an idiot for not knowing this already. “Whatever you want, I just need a club to join.”

“So you’re asking the first first-year you meet?” Izaya says rather than asks. He shrugs, tilts his shoulder up into a refusal and his head sideways into a false apology. “Sorry, senpai, I have better things to do than sing enka with you.” A backwards step, a flash of teeth, and he’s moving away, lifting a hand to wave as he retreats. “Good luck with kidnapping yourself some friends.”

“ _Wait_ ,” comes the growl, but Izaya’s halfway down the hall already, turning away before he can see the shape of anger more than dawn on the other boy’s face.

He’s still grinning. Confusing or not, it’s definitely the most entertainment he’s had all day.


	2. Intrigued

Izaya doesn’t think about the second-year again. However odd their interaction was, it was a brief thing, hardly enough to hold Izaya’s attention through the blocks he has to walk to get home after school. By the next morning he’s forgotten it ever happened, and the memory has no occasion to reassert itself that day or during the few that follow. It’s just further proof of the intriguing oddities of humanity, a drop in Izaya’s ocean of observations, not to be reexamined without a compelling reason.

On Friday, Izaya finds that reason.

He’s making his way down the hall towards the entryway after class, considering the pros and cons of stopping by a convenience store on the way home for something more substantial to eat than the cup ramen he usually lives on. It’s enough to occupy his thoughts but not enough to hold his attention in the face of anything at all interesting; when a hum of consternation sweeps down the hall it seizes his wandering focus, brings his feet to a halt and his head up to see what’s going on.

There’s not much to see, as it turns out. A handful of people are coming down the hall, not quite panicked enough to run but moving fast enough that their footsteps scuff against the floor; all of them are looking behind, watching for some oncoming threat that Izaya doesn’t see.

“Hey,” he says as they approach, clustered together with the instinct for safety in numbers. The group eyes Izaya like a single organism, their eyes wide on adrenaline; it takes them a moment to stop for his question, another for him to be sure he has their attention. “What’s going on?”

“A fight,” one of the group says, weighting the words like they have some kind of deep meaning Izaya is unaware of. “Out back.”

“Sounds like fun,” Izaya says, feeling an eyebrow raise. Fights aren’t that common, but there’s no way this school can be  _that_  polished that a scuffle is enough to cause this kind of panic. He got accepted, after all.

Another of the cluster shakes his head in a burst of motion made frantic by its speed. “No way,” he says, taking another step forward. “Shizuo’s fighting, it’s dangerous to be within a mile of that.”

Izaya squints, trying to piece together meaning from the words. “Who?”

“Heiwajima Shizuo,” the first boy says, slow and reverent, like maybe Izaya just didn’t hear the first time. When Izaya keeps waiting for more the other boy shakes his head, swings an arm towards the other end of the hallway. “Go see for yourself. You’ll remember who he is after you see him in a fight.”

“Okay,” Izaya says, but the group is already moving away, retreating down the hallway in one tangle of matching uniforms and wide-frightened eyes. “Thank you!” he calls, only a little bit of skeptical laughter creeping into his voice, and then he turns and heads down the hall in the direction they came from.

Izaya has seen fistfights before. He tries to avoid participating in them himself; he lacks the stocky build to be a real threat, and the skinny fragility of his arms isn’t enough to pose any kind of a danger to anyone else. He’d rather have a weapon, ideally the sharp edge of a knife, and if he must be in a fight he’d rather it was over quickly, while he can keep the element of surprise on his attacker. Drawn-out fights are inefficient, a slow collection of blood and bruises until one party can’t muster the will to go on, and even that leaves the victor bruised and battered into a state that’s no kind of win that Izaya would want.

What he finds at the back of the school isn’t a fistfight, though. It’s a  _brawl_ , the collection of dozens of bodies attacking in a swarm like ants trying to overwhelm a resistant grasshopper. Some are wearing the school uniform; most are not, preferring leather jackets or open coats with the weight of embroidery across the back. Izaya recognizes the insignia of at least one gang, one of the more ostentatious in the city, and at least half the group aren’t students at all, judging by the breadth of their shoulders and the advantage of height they have as they come in. If this student, the promised Heiwajima Shizuo, is under that, Izaya thinks he’ll be lucky to come out alive, much less with any of his bones unbroken.

And then there is movement. It’s like a wave, an earthquake, some natural force pushing back the crush of bodies like a shockwave rushing out through them. It takes a moment for the crowd to clear enough for Izaya to see what’s happening, and even once he sees it it’s another breath before he believes. There  _is_  a student in the midst of the chaos, a boy wearing the same dark jacket Izaya has on although it looks somewhat more tattered from the fight. He himself looks ordinary enough, if a little older and a little taller than Izaya, but what he’s  _doing_  is impossible, even for someone as willing to accept the inconceivable as Izaya is. He has a pole in his hands, a length of crumpled metal nearly twice his height; there’s a net behind him, what Izaya realizes after a moment is the remains of a soccer goal torn to pieces to produce this makeshift weapon. There is no way the boy can wield it effectively -- he shouldn’t even be able to hold it upright, with how much it must weigh -- but even as Izaya stares he’s swinging it like it weighs nothing at all, slamming the force of it into the attackers foolish enough to stand up without any discernable hesitation even at the impact. It’s impossible, it’s  _inhuman_ , and he’s doing it anyway, moving with as much ease as if he simply has never been bothered by the demands of physics or the limits of an ordinary human body.

Izaya has to reach out to the wall to brace himself upright on knees gone suddenly weak. Humanity he knows, humanity he understands; humanity is a game to be played where he knows all the rules, where every outcome is a foregone conclusion he can predict as easily as if he were a mind reader. This is something else, something he didn’t know existed, something he didn’t know  _could_  exist; the novelty of that is breathtaking, the shock alone enough to flush his whole body hot with interest, with the kind of white-hot flame of curiosity he can’t remember feeling since he was a far younger child than he is now.

He waits for the end. It doesn’t take long; the numbers of the attackers are meaningless, the flurry of their motion a desperate attempt for a victory made impossible before they began. They fall like dominos, playing cards knocked over by a breath of wind, and then it’s over, there’s just the boy breathing hard in the middle of the wreckage of metal and bodies, his shoulders heaving so hard Izaya can see them moving even before he pushes the door open to step out onto the ruins of the battlefield.

“Did they do something to offend you?” he calls, pitching his voice caustic and bright so it will carry over the distance as he moves in towards the other boy. A dark head whips around towards him, a scowl clear even before Izaya can make out the details of the other’s features. Izaya keeps an eye on the pole still gripped in an irritated fist, tries to guess how much warning he’d need to dodge it. He’s not sure. The thought shudders heat up and down his spine in a long shiver of adrenaline, requires that he take another moment to steady his voice before he goes on speaking.

“Or is violence just your preferred method of communication?” Izaya’s closer, now, the other’s features coming into focus as he approaches. There’s nothing remarkable about him up-close either, except for the blood trickling from a cut on his forehead and the bruise swelling the corner of his mouth, but Izaya recognizes him all the same, is starting to grin acknowledgment as the other boy spits, “ _You_ ,” with as much anger as surprise.

“You should have told me you were the great Heiwajima Shizuo,” Izaya says, even though that would have meant nothing to him when they spoke originally. The other boy’s eyes narrow, irritation creasing his forehead, and that’s enough to confirm Izaya’s hypothesis that the omission was deliberate and not an accident. “Were you hoping to get the best of an innocent first-year before we all learned what a monster you are?”

He means it as a taunt, something to draw a growl of fury out of the other’s face so he can see the veneer of humanity give way from an up-close perspective. He’s not expecting the way the other boy flinches, the way his eyes skid away and his shoulders slump into something shockingly close to defeat.

“I wasn’t trying to take advantage of you,” he says, tossing the pole in his hand aside. It clatters against the ground; it’s only Izaya bracing himself for it that keeps him from startling at the sound. “I just need to join a club.”

“None of the others good enough for you?” Izaya asks, aiming for teasing because he’s not sure what else to do, because he doesn’t have any idea how to handle this unexpectedly unpredictable person. “Or do you really have a burning desire for karaoke?”

“Shut up,” the other boy growls at him. “If you’re not volunteering you can just go away.”

“I am,” Izaya says, clear and loud so his meaning can’t be mistaken. The other boy draws back, forehead creasing on confusion, and Izaya repeats himself with condescending slowness. “I am volunteering. Unless you’ve changed your mind too.”

“What?” The other boy looks perplexed, like he’s fighting to make sense of Izaya’s words. “ _Why_?”

“I misjudged you,” Izaya admits, adds on a smile so charmingly sincere he knows it only ever looks like a lie to observers, no matter how honest his words are. “You’re interesting after all, Shizu-chan.”

The other boy recoils at that. Izaya grins, a flash of delight too bright to withhold as his audience chokes out a “ _What_ ,” closely followed by “Don’t call me  _chan_ , I don’t even know your  _name_.”

“Orihara Izaya,” Izaya says instantly, stepping in closer than he probably should and offering a hand. The sudden proximity makes the other boy draw back, taking a half-step away before he sees what Izaya is doing and eyes his hand like he’s offering a bomb between his fingertips. “You can call me Izaya, I don’t mind.”

“You  _can’t_  call me Shizu-chan,” the other says, but he’s reaching for Izaya’s hand, learned politeness overriding the discomfort Izaya can see all over his face. His hand is warm, rough with calluses across the fingers and bloody at the knuckles; Izaya tightens his hold and lets his thumb slide across the red staining the other’s skin. “I’m your senpai.”

“My apologies,” Izaya says silkily and without letting go of Shizuo’s hand. “Please forgive me, Shizuo-senpai.”

This isn’t much better, if the face the other boy makes is any indication. But Izaya’s grinning, teetering on the verge of laughter only restrained because he can taste the mania electric on his tongue, because if he opens his mouth he’s not sure he’ll be able to stop laughing once he starts.

Shizuo’s blood is warm on his fingertips.


	3. Support

“So, Shizuo-senpai,” Izaya says to Shizuo’s hunched shoulders as they move down hallways left barren by the panic the fight brought on. “Have you ever killed someone?”

Shizuo glances back at him, his forehead tight on irritation and mouth set into a scowl; Izaya can see a bruise swelling darker against the corner of his lip, the shape of it tilting the expression off-center and awkward. It would probably make it more intimidating to someone not Izaya; to Izaya it’s a draw, a pull as much as the drying blood he’s pressing against his palm, as much as the shiver of aftershock adrenaline he gets thinking about the print of fingers Shizuo left in the metal pole they left behind them.

“Shut up,” Shizuo says, looking away and down so his hair falls over his face and curtains the red drying and flaking against his skin. “Why would you ask something like that?”

“Is the super-strength a recent development?” Izaya prods, skipping forward to catch up to Shizuo’s slightly longer stride so he can duck in and get a look at the other’s shadowed features. “Or did your parents spend your childhood fearing for their lives?”

“They’re not  _afraid_  of me,” Shizuo growls, shoulders hunching farther in over himself. “I’ve never hurt them.” It’s quick, rushed and harsh with defensiveness; Izaya smiles slow, tasting blood in the water, Shizuo’s tone a certain tell for a weak point of some kind.

“Not yet,” he says, drawling it into sing-song, and atches Shizuo’s shoulders curl in like they’re strong enough to keep out all the bite Izaya can lace into his words. “Who  _have_  you hurt?”

“Shut up,” Shizuo says again, fast and raw, and Izaya flashes his teeth even though Shizuo isn’t looking at him.

“Was it a classmate?” he asks, and watches Shizuo’s fingers curl in against his palm, flex into the shape of a fist before they relax, the threat undoing itself through instinct or effort or both. “A teacher? A stranger?”

“Stop talking,” Shizuo orders.

“All of the above?” Izaya tries next, knowing he’s too close, watching Shizuo’s shoulders go tense on the possibility of violence and hoping he’ll have enough warning to dodge when it comes. “How many people have you sent to the hospital?”

“Shut  _up_ ,” and he’s moving, faster than Izaya expected but with far less subtlety, a hand swinging around with enough warning that Izaya can stumble backwards and out of the way in time. He catches himself, turns the fall into the appearance of intent, and by the time Shizuo has turned around to glare at him Izaya’s on the other side of the hallway, shoulders pressed against the wall as if Shizuo couldn’t shove him straight through the apparent support it offers.

“Why do you  _care_?” Shizuo demands. The scabs forming across his knuckles have reopened with the fist he’s formed; Izaya can see the spill of blood over his skin, can watch it collect into a half-clotted droplet and fall to the floor. “Why don’t you just stay away from me like everyone else does?”

“I’m curious,” Izaya says immediately, honesty giving a strange foreign tang to his tongue. His heart is pounding against his ribcage, stuttering hard at the pulse in his throat, but his voice stays level, his smile teasing and absent the instinctive panic that tries to take over his limbs. “I’ve never met a monster before.”

“I’m not a monster” but the words are too-harsh, brittle and rushed; Izaya is pretty sure Shizuo believes them exactly as much as he does himself.

“Don’t lie to yourself,” Izaya purrs, the adrenaline that doesn’t touch his voice twisting into heat in his veins and leaving him shaky and hot until his uniform feels too heavy, the weight of it enough to hold the radiance in his veins into a burn on his skin. “You should know who you are if you don’t know anything else.”

Shizuo stares at him. Izaya watches his forehead crease under the pressure of confusion, watches his bruised mouth drag itself into a frown. For a moment he looks entirely adrift in spite of the signs of violence printed all over his face, as if he’s actually the teenager he appears to be and not some unfettered force of nature barely contained in human skin.

“Why aren’t you  _scared_  of me?” he asks finally, when the quiet has stretched so long Izaya’s breathing has steadied and Shizuo’s knuckles have stopped bleeding. “Aren’t you afraid I’m going to hurt you?”

“Senpai,” Izaya drawls, tugging the vowels wide-open and taunting. “I’m not scared of  _anything_.” He can taste the lie on his tongue, the twist and bite of deception far more familiar than the sweet of sincerity, but it’s not fear that’s hot in his veins, and it’s not from a desire to escape that he’s leaning so hard against the wall at his back. “Besides, you’d have to catch me to hurt me.”

Shizuo’s eyebrows jump up, his expression opening under a burst of shock. Izaya’s never seen someone so easy to read; Shizuo’s reactions are clear in every shift of his mouth, in every flex of his fingers. His anger is fading, right now, sliding out of his eyes and off his shoulders to leave just focused attention on Izaya’s face as if he’ll be able to read the other’s deliberately neutral smirk as easily as Izaya can read him.

“You’re insane,” Shizuo says, the words weighted with a growl that almost but not quite disguises the uncertainty under them.

Izaya shrugs as if it doesn’t matter, straightens from the wall in a movement as fluid as he can make it. “You’re in no position to criticize me,” he announces, turning to move down the hall and away. His spine shudders electric at turning his back to Shizuo, the premonition of danger turning itself into thrill. When he glances back Shizuo is staring after him, forehead still creased and mouth turned around a frown more considering than angry. “At least I’m all human.”

“I  _am_  human,” Shizuo insists. Izaya listens to the pace of the steps coming up behind him, glances sideways as Shizuo draws level with him. The other boy isn’t looking around them at all; he’s glaring at Izaya, as intent as if he can force him into agreement just by staring hard enough.

“Uh huh,” Izaya says, letting the dip in his tone turn it to skepticism without the assistance of coherency, and then, quick, before Shizuo can frame the irritation in his eyes into words: “Don’t you need three people to form a club?”

“Huh?” Shizuo blurts, stumbles a step. “What are you talking about?”

“You said you wanted to form a club,” Izaya says with enough patience in his voice to condescend to an entire roomful of people. He lifts a hand, touches a finger to his chest. “One.” Out, harder than he needs to, pressing in against Shizuo’s shoulder as the other hisses and draws back from the impact. “Two.”

“Oh.” Shizuo smacks Izaya’s hand away, the motion of his wrist casual in appearance and hard enough that Izaya can feel the jolt all the way up to his shoulder. “Not at this school.” He shrugs, casual dismissal of something he clearly finds uninteresting. “All I need to do is get one other person.”

“And it took you until you were a second-year?” Izaya asks, grinning with the uncontrollable energy sparking through him, with the thrill of something  _interesting_  so close. “You really are an outcast, aren’t you?”

“Shut up,” Shizuo snaps. “It’s not like you have any friends either.”

Izaya finds a smile, holds to it under Shizuo’s glare. “Good thing I found a senpai to take care of me,” he says, letting the words go sticky-sweet with put-on respect he doesn’t feel. “I can rely on you, right, Shizuo-senpai?”

“Oh my god,” Shizuo groans, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling. “You are  _such_ a  _pest_.”

Izaya’s grin goes wider. He doesn’t argue the point.


	4. Inward

“Well,” Izaya says, watching Shizuo’s frown of concentration instead of staring at the form on the table between them. “This explains why you couldn’t recruit any members for your club.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo says reflexively, glancing up to scowl at Izaya. “What are you talking about anyway?”

“It’s usually easier to get members for a club with a  _purpose_ ,” Izaya says, reaching out to tap his finger against the blank space just under the header of the club request form. “As opposed to just demanding if strangers want to join for an unspecified gathering. For all they know you could be planning to dissect them in the name of science or something.”

Shizuo rolls his eyes. “No one thinks that.”

“ _I_  thought it,” Izaya says, just to be argumentative, watches the pencil in Shizuo’s hand bend as his fingers flex against the wood.

“No one  _except you_  would think that,” Shizuo says, the rough edges of his voice dragging in his throat. He’s glaring again, his dark eyes fixed on Izaya instead of on the form; Izaya’s very sure Shizuo’s forgotten all about what they’re doing in favor of paying attention to him instead.

He leans back in his chair, his movements going heavy with the satisfaction of having an audience, and lets his gaze drop from Shizuo’s eyes to the pencil in his fingers. “You’re going to break that.”

“What?” Shizuo says, head turning to follow Izaya’s line of sight as if he’s tracing out an arrow. His forehead creases, his mouth turns into a frown, but when he moves it’s to toss the unbroken pencil across the desks with enough force to send it halfway across the room.

Izaya reaches out to catch it. “How do you make it through class without destroying something?” he asks conversationally, pressing his fingertips against the club request form so he can pivot it across the desks towards himself. “Is it just that everyone around you treats you like the monster you are?”

“I’m not a monster,” Shizuo denies. “Most people aren’t as  _annoying_  as you are.”

“Aww,” Izaya says, looking up from the form to bat his eyes at Shizuo. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Shizuo-senpai.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo says again, but he’s not looking at Izaya anymore; he’s leaning in instead, hunching over the desks between them until the setting sun casts his shadow over the form Izaya is filling out. “What are you writing?”

“I’ll show you in a minute,” Izaya says, and reaches out without looking to brace his hand at Shizuo’s shoulder and push him back. There’s a pause, a brief moment of feeling as if he’s pushing at an immovable wall; then Shizuo tips back, a little too slowly given the force Izaya is exerting. It’s like he’s consciously thinking through his response, moving back because he knows he should rather than because Izaya’s effort is actually affecting anything. Izaya can feel his blood go hot at the idea.

“Why do you want to join a club anyway?” Izaya asks as Shizuo leans back in his seat and he draws his hand back, closes his fingers around the barely perceptible tremor that has caught just under his skin. “Don’t you want to go home after school? You could always wreck havoc in the streets, if your family is so bad.”

“My family is fine,” Shizuo says, not even sounding irritated at the implication. “I just need something to do so I don’t get caught up in fights on my way home.”

Izaya laughs, a sharp burst of sound. “Are you trying to convince me you’re  _scared_?”

“I’m not  _scared_ ,” Shizuo says, grating the word with the rising irritation Izaya was attempting to spark. “I just don’t like it.”

“You don’t like winning?”

“I don’t like  _fighting_.” Shizuo’s shoulders relax out of the threat of anger, his head turns out towards the window. The orange sunlight softens his features, brightens the dark brown of his hair to gold for a moment. “I hate violence.”

There’s a beat of time, a breath of silence while Izaya coordinates his thoughts into coherency. Then:

“You’re absurd,” he declares, letting the last word drift to another burst of laughter and waiting until Shizuo turns back to him before he leans down over the form once more. “You have inhuman strength and all you can say is that you hate violence? You practically  _are_  violence.”

This does not result in the explosion Izaya half-expected. There’s silence instead, quiet loaded with confirmation of Izaya’s suspicion, and when Izaya glances back up Shizuo’s looking down, giving the desk in front of him a scowl Izaya is quite sure isn’t intended for the scarred wooden surface.

“Here,” he says by way of breaking Shizuo’s distraction, turns the paper around and slides it back over the gap between them. Shizuo gets a hand up to stop the form from sliding over the edge and frowns at the page as Izaya continues. “Congratulations, you have yourself a club.”

“‘Humanity Studies,’” Shizuo reads. “‘Formed for the purposes of defining the boundaries of humanity and the…’” he trails off, scowl going darker as he keeps reading.

“Doesn’t it sound like fun, Shizuo-senpai?” Izaya lilts, swinging one leg out to kick Shizuo’s shin under the desks. “Don’t I have the best ideas?”

Shizuo looks up, leveling the full force of his irritation at Izaya. “You want to make a club to  _study_  me.”

“Sure.” Izaya leans in over the desk, braces his elbow against the surface and flashes his teeth in a minimal approximation of a smile. “ _You_  didn’t have any bright ideas. And I think humanity is  _fascinating_.”

“You’re crazy,” Shizuo declares, like he’s handing down a verdict, like this might be news to Izaya. “You’re out of your mind.”

“And you’re in the Humanity Club with me,” Izaya says, reaching out to tug the form out of Shizuo’s slack hold. “What does that make  _you_ , senpai?”


	5. Victorious

Izaya misses most of the fight. That’s the problem, it seems, with fights involving Shizuo: they’re a regular occurrence, something to be avoided on an individual level but not worth mentioning as long as you’re clear of the explosion yourself. Izaya wouldn’t hear about this one at all except that he notices the unusual flood of students returning to the classroom from the more usual rooftop lunch spot, and when he asks gets told “Heiwajima Shizuo,” with the same all-encompassing tone the name held the first time he heard it. The difference, of course, is that this time he has the information to make sense out of the implication, this time he knows to beeline straight for the rooftop as soon as he wins the location from one of the escaping bystanders.

There’s not much to see by the time he pushes the weight of the rooftop door open. Even the victims are fleeing, now; one pushes past Izaya as he steps out into the sunlight, barely sparing him a single incredulous glance for the direction of his movement before retreating down the stairs to nurse at least a bloody nose and probably a concussion to boot. Izaya pays him as little attention; his focus is on Shizuo, currently standing over what looks to be the last of his opponents with his shoulders hunched and his dark hair falling around his face. He’s holding one of the benches that usually sit along the edge of the fence; this one is loose, torn free from the bolts that are intended to hold it to the concrete surface, one leg twisted out of shape from whatever force Shizuo applied to wrench it free.

“Please,” the boy on the ground says, lifting a shaking arm like it’ll stave off the force of the bench Shizuo is raising, now, swinging up and over his shoulder as if it were a baseball bat and weighed as little. The loser’s eyes are wide, his face bloodless; Izaya is sure he would be running if he weren’t too shaky on terrified adrenaline to get to his feet. “It wasn’t my idea, I swear it wasn’t.”

“I don’t think that matters much to him,” Izaya calls from the door, pitching his voice loud so it will carry over the gap of distance to the other two. He’s grinning when they turn to look, can feel amusement tugging taut at his lips at the abject terror on the stranger’s face and the glaring rage clear on Shizuo’s. “Shizuo-senpai is indiscriminate when it comes to distributing pain.”

“Izaya-kun,” Shizuo growls. He’s still holding the bench; for a moment Izaya tenses to dodge, his grin lingering as his feet brace in preparation of sudden movement if necessary. Then Shizuo sighs and tosses the metal aside without looking, and the tension in Izaya’s chest relaxes into relief as the other conscious party turns over to crawl as fast as he can towards the door to the stairwell.

“What do you want?” Shizuo asks as Izaya approaches, sparing a glance for the animal fear in the stranger’s hunched shoulders and the unseeing panic in the glaze of his eyes as he scrambles past, too frightened to even push up to his feet. He grabs at the doorhandle, drags himself upright by his hold, and Izaya looks away, the brief spike in his attention giving way to the far more interesting subject in front of him.

“You should tell me if you’re going to get in a fight,” he says, stepping in close enough to see the dark damp of blood matting Shizuo’s hair to his forehead. “I’m hurt you didn’t think to tip me off. Aren’t we supposed to be friends?”

“Who said we were friends?” Shizuo snaps. Izaya reaches up, presses his fingers through dark hair, and Shizuo flinches, his expression going tight on discomfort at the contact. “Ow.”

“So you  _can_ feel pain,” Izaya says, drawling the words as if he’s talking to himself. “I thought maybe there was something wrong with your nervous system.” He shoves harder, deliberately harsh with the force he’s applying to Shizuo’s hair; this time Shizuo hisses, jerks sideways and away while his hand comes up to close at Izaya’s wrist and hold him off.

“Stop it,” he growls, forehead creasing into what looks like perfectly ordinary irritation. His thumb digs in against the thud of Izaya’s pulse in his wrist; Izaya is certain without seeing that blue bruises are rising to meet the weight of Shizuo’s hold. He’s probably trying to be gentle; Izaya suspects he has that to thank for having an unbroken wrist at the moment. “That  _hurts_.”

“But how  _much_?” Izaya asks, keeping his voice level, his smile intact even as the ache at his wrist spreads down his arm to his elbow, the dull thud of hurt offering a distraction that he consciously ignores. “Did you even notice you were cut before I touched you?” He’s grinning, the mania of excitement flooding his veins with heat and flushing his skin to pink; it makes his question sound rhetorical, makes it sound like he knows the answer even though he’s guessing wildly. All his past experiences are from a different data set; whatever else he knows, Izaya has worked out that human responses are not something that he can assume necessarily apply to Shizuo.

Shizuo scowls at him. “Shut up,” he says, shoves Izaya’s hand away and reaches up to feel out the cut along his hairline. Izaya fits his hand into his pocket, tugs his sleeve down to shadow the color forming against his wrist, and steps past Shizuo, cutting deliberately close so his sleeve skims the other boy’s elbow.

“Do you ignore broken bones too?” Izaya asks as he kicks at the fallen bench. It’s landed nearly-upright, the top surface only a little lopsided due to the crumpled leg; Izaya considers the shift it has under the force of his foot, decides it’s worth the attempt at sitting. It sways a little when he sits down but the balance steadies after a moment, holds level even when Shizuo drops inelegantly alongside him.

“I don’t ignore anything,” Shizuo says without meeting Izaya’s gaze. His mouth is caught into a frown as he stares off into the distance; he looks like he’s considering something unpleasant instead of the clean blue of the sky through the chainlink fence. “I just don’t notice until afterwards.”

“Congratulations, you just defined ‘ignoring,’” Izaya drawls. “Your adrenaline levels must be  _inhuman_.”

“Stop saying that,” Shizuo says without any bite on the words at all. He just sounds tired, like the blood staining his cheek is actually causing him the pain he claims it is. “I just get angry sometimes.”

“And destroy everything around you,” Izaya says. He kicks against the concrete under them to rock the unsteady bench back by an inch. “Including yourself?”

Shizuo’s leg swings out, foot slamming against the rooftop hard enough to scuff. The bench stops dead, the result of Izaya’s idle movement cut off as if it had never been.

“Not anymore,” he says flatly, the shut-door weight of his tone implying an array of broken bones and bloodstained skin when it is clearly intended to avoid such discussion.

Izaya grins and lets the conversation go, gives Shizuo what will feel like a victory to him to match the stillness he has won from the bench. He doesn’t care about technicalities when he’s gained the information -- and the stability -- he wanted in the first place.


	6. Balance

“You haven’t answered me,” Shizuo growls from the other side of the after-school empty classroom, shoulders hunched in over the support of the desk. “What are we  _doing_?”

“I told you at lunch,” Izaya says, unfolding from his lean out the open window to turn around and flash a grin at the other boy’s scowl. “If we’re going to be in a club together we need to have club activities to report on.”

Shizuo rolls his eyes so hard Izaya can see the motion even with the space of the classroom between them. “It doesn’t matter,” he says, bracing his foot on the support at the front of the desk and tipping himself over the back two legs of his chair. “No one really cares what the clubs do as long as you’re part of one.”

“Are you a slacker, senpai?” Izaya asks, watching the tilt of the chair legs and thinking about how easy it would be to jar the pressure out of balance, to hear the crash of Shizuo falling to the floor, to see the way his expression would go stormcloud dark as anger surged him to his feet to lunge towards Izaya. “How am I supposed to become a productive member of society if all I have is your example to follow?”

“Aren’t you supposed to respect me?” Shizuo asks, forehead creasing into irritation as his chair angles farther back.

“I do,” Izaya lies, bracing his hands on the windowsill so he can push himself up to perch on the ledge and kick his feet clear of the floor. “Do you think I don’t?”

“I think you’re a brat,” Shizuo says. “I should have never started a club with you.”

“Feel free to leave as soon as you find someone else willing to spend time with you.” Izaya braces his hands at the lip of the window, tips his weight back and out into the open space; the breeze catches his hair, creeps warm under the edge of his collar. “You’ve done an impressive job of terrifying everyone else.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo growls, the words so well-worn already Izaya barely hears them at all but for the rumble of the sound in Shizuo’s chest. “Are you  _trying_  to make me hate you?”

“I don’t care if you hate me,” Izaya says, tasting the truth on his tongue as he grins at the focus in Shizuo’s eyes on him. “Let’s take over the school.”

There’s a bark of laughter, surprise jolting into sound in Shizuo’s throat, his startled smile disbelieving as much as it is amused. “I wish I could tell when you’re serious.”

“I’m always serious.” Izaya kicks his legs off the wall, lets his weight hang off his hold at the edges of the window; there’s a rush of adrenaline along his spine, the threat of fear at the back of his tongue, but his fingers are steady on the edge of the sill, they don’t slip even when he shifts his fingers against the metal. “We could do it, you know. You have the raw strength and I’ve got the brains.” He looks up, tips his head back towards the sky; the blue is washed to gold by the setting sun, the haze in the air turning everything to shades of bronze around him. “It would be  _fun_.”

“Stop it,” Shizuo snaps, the tone excessively harsh for the subject of conversation. “You’re going to fall.”

Izaya tips his head sideways, blinks sunlight from his eyes until he can make out Shizuo glaring at him from the desk, the frustration at his mouth warring with the concern in his eyes, the uncertainty across his forehead formed from his reasonable distrust of Izaya’s motivations. Izaya lets his grin drag wider, brings his heels back in against the wall to hook his toes under the railing along the wall, and watches the stress in Shizuo’s shoulders ease at this apparent submission.

“Is that a no?” Izaya asks, leaning forward to judge his balance against the sill, to shift his hands against the ledge. “Or is the school by itself not enough for you?” He drops his hands from their hold, watches Shizuo’s expression relax into relief he probably thinks is subtle.

“Maybe the city,” Izaya suggests, and tips backwards out the open window.

There’s a bang against the floor, the crack of a metal chair clattering uncaught to fall over itself, but it’s Shizuo Izaya hears, a shout of “ _Fuck_ ” and the crash of a desk knocking over upon meeting an unstoppable force. Izaya is just catching his weight against his feet, just starting to spread his arms out into the open air, when a hand grabs at his shirtfront, fingers clenching into a fist that catches his weight.

“We could take everything,” Izaya says, head tipped back to see the world in inversion, the breeze dragging through his hair as Shizuo’s hold on his uniform offers needless security for the balance of his feet against the wall. “You and me.”

“What the  _fuck_ ,” Shizuo says, voice shaking audibly like it’s making up for the rock-solid hold he has at Izaya’s clothes. “The hell is  _wrong_  with you?”

Izaya tilts his head down. Shizuo is staring at him, eyes wide and face wiped clear of anything except panic, all his building irritation gone like it never existed. His other hand is braced at the top pane of the window, his fingers splayed against the glass; Izaya can see the transparency clouding with the heat of Shizuo’s palm.

“I wasn’t going to  _fall_ ,” Izaya says, kicking his feet up in surrender to Shizuo’s grip and leaning farther back against the counterbalance of the absolute hold on his shirt. “I’m not  _crazy_.”

“ _Come here_ ,” Shizuo growls, and drags at Izaya’s shirt to lift him back into the room bodily. For a moment Izaya’s balance gives way in truth, his perspective swinging dizzily as Shizuo drags him into the space again; when the other’s hold goes Izaya stumbles forward, catches himself at the edge of a desk while Shizuo slams the window shut as if it’s to blame for his own unnecessary panic.

“You’ll kill yourself with stunts like that,” Shizuo says, pivoting on his heel to glower at Izaya. He looks taller than he is, his shoulders broader; in his shadow the sunset turns to a halo on his hair, transforms it to the threat of gold instead of the ordinary brown Izaya knows it to be.

Izaya musters a grin, leans back against the desk like he leaned out the window, his balance shifting only at his own intention with no unexpected input from gravity. “Or you’ll kill me for trying them?”

Izaya isn’t sure if Shizuo’s growl is agreement or protest. It doesn’t make a difference anyway; under the satisfaction of his focused attention it’s easy to find a smile.


	7. Threat

Izaya likes the way rooftops look. What from the ground looks boring and predictable from above becomes a landscape all its own, with the patterns of vents and fences to break up the flat line of what is ultimately just a covering for the building below, the utilitarian fashion of architecture as intriguing to consider as the human affectations of clothes and accessories. And he likes being above rooftops, likes looking down on the surfaces below him; the low-level vertigo it gives him is just a bonus, the sense of being somewhere a short distance above his body more liberating than frightening. He trusts his balance, trusts himself to know his limits better than he knows nearly anything else, until leaning out over the chest-high fence at the top of the school roof is more to get a better view on the ground below than from any sense of daredevil excitement.

He’s tipped far forward when the voice comes, the familiar resonance of anger scraping his name into an insult, turning it inside-out until it sounds a curse coming past unfamiliar lips. “ _Orihara_.”

Izaya looks back without bracing his feet on the ground. There’s a boy coming towards him, following the straight-line focus of fury towards Izaya’s tilt over the edge of the fence; his face is familiar, his name comes as easily as if Izaya is reading it out of the phone book of his memory. Izaya grins, drops himself down to the balls of his feet; when he pivots it coincides perfectly with the boy’s approach to leave him lounging with deliberate artistry against the fence as the other storms closer.

“Nakura-kun,” Izaya drawls, the flow of the name past his lips only slightly interrupted by the fist the other makes of his shirt to shove him back against the metal links of the fence. “What can I do for you?”

“Give it back,” Nakura grates. He sounds desperate, looks more so; Izaya can feel the adrenaline of anxiety shuddering through the hold he has on Izaya’s shirtfront. “Give me my money back.”

“That’s not how gambling works,” Izaya points out smoothly. “You shouldn’t have taken the bet if you weren’t prepared to lose.”

“It’s not  _mine_ ,” Nakura says, as if Izaya couldn’t see that from the panic in his eyes, as if Izaya hadn’t known that the moment the other boy had offered the unreasonable sum of money during a poker game past curfew and with a handful of what Izaya thinks of as the interesting characters in town. “I need it back, it’s not  _mine_.”

“It’s not yours,” Izaya agrees, pausing long enough that some of the strain fades from Nakura’s face, his eyes going wider like he thinks Izaya might be commiserating with him. “It’s mine.” He grins as Nakura’s expression drops into shadow, coughs a breath at the shove of the other boy’s fist into his chest. “Or it was, before I spent it.”

“Fuck you,” Nakura says, eyes going dark on adrenaline, expression falling slack as desperation inverts itself into rage in his veins. Izaya can see his focus slide away as Nakura’s attention reorients on the red wash of his own anger instead of on Izaya’s face. “I’m...I’m going to  _kill_  you.”

“Are you?” Izaya asks, attaining an angle on his voice that falls somewhere between amusement and incredulity. “Do you have a knife in your pocket or something?”

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Nakura repeats, and this time he shoves, hauling Izaya up by his shirtfront with more strength than Izaya thought him master of. Izaya’s stomach lurches with true vertigo, this time, his feet sliding free of the rooftop as Nakura shoves him back and up the fence; the metal catches against his back, drags the burn of friction over the knobs of his spine, and Izaya starts to grin, adrenaline coursing into mania in his veins and drawing his heartbeat into the rush of speed that always makes him feel  _alive_  as he never does, otherwise.

“Efficient,” he says as Nakura forces him up the fence, shoving him back so Izaya’s shoulders are over the edge, until his balance on the top of the fence is wobbling in and out of stability. “Throwing me off the roof, then?”

“I told you,” Nakura says, sounding angry, looking frightened, shaking with a dangerous combination of fear and desperation. “I’m going to kill you if you don’t give me my money.”

Izaya grins, wide and lopsided and taunting. “No.” He doesn’t know what Nakura will do; he might snap, might give the extra shove to knock Izaya’s balance over the edge of the fence, or he might break in the other direction, might dissolve into apologetic tears and indebt himself to Izaya out of guilt for what he could have done. Either way is interesting, either way is a win; there’s a concrete lip even on the other side of the fence, the links themselves are wide enough to allow for the grab of a fast enough hand, and Izaya doesn’t feel the rush of fright that says he’s in true danger, not yet. It’ll take more than this, more fury or more strength or--

“ _Hey_.”

Nakura doesn’t recognize the voice; Izaya can see the irritation heavy in his shoulders when he twists to aim a glare over his shoulder, the fury in him strong enough to push him to a second confrontation on the inertia of the first. Izaya doesn’t even look up; it’s more interesting to watch Nakura’s shoulders slump, to see the rage drain out of him as all his adrenaline shifts smoothly from fight to flight.

“Heiwajima,” he breathes, fear layering his voice out of hearing and into a high, strained drag of horror. The hold at Izaya’s shirt goes slack and Izaya drops the inches to the ground, landing light on the balls of his feet; he’s steadying himself as Nakura stumbles away from him, hunching in like he might be able to hide inside his own shadow.

“Shizu- _chan_ ,” Izaya lilts, watching Nakura for the whip-quick turn of his head instead of whatever reaction the name will win from Shizuo. “What are you doing here?”

“You know  _Heiwajima_?” Nakura gasps, eyes wide as if he’s been personally betrayed, as if his perception of Izaya is reforming even as Izaya watches him.

“I know everyone,” Izaya purrs.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Nakura blurts, and he turns, rushing towards the door with as much desperation to flee from Izaya as from Shizuo. Shizuo is glowering at him, turning to watch him go past; Izaya can see the tension settling into Shizuo’s shoulders, the shift of his weight as he starts to turn to follow Nakura down the stairs.

“It must be nice to feel like the hero,” Izaya calls, loud so it’ll carry over the distance between them, teasing so it’ll grab and hold Shizuo’s attention. Shizuo turns away from the door, the threat in his expression easing into a familiar glare as all his focus slides off Nakura to fall to Izaya. “Is it strange to see conflict from the other side, Shizu-chan?”

“Don’t call me that,” Shizuo says. “What the hell was that?”

Izaya lifts a shoulder, tilting his chin into the shrug and letting the angle of his head linger. “A conversation.” Shizuo is still glaring at him; as Izaya draws closer he can see the suspicion across the other’s forehead, something softer that might be bordering on concern at his mouth. “Don’t worry about it,  _senpai_.”

“It looked like he was going to push you off the roof,” Shizuo says, still watching Izaya with more sharpness under his gaze that Izaya quite wants to face.

“I would have caught myself,” Izaya says easily, reaching out to hook his fingers into the loop of fabric wrapping the lunch Shizuo’s holding. “Did you make this yourself?”

Shizuo jerks the weight away from Izaya’s touch, the movement so instantaneous it must be reflexive rather than intentional. “No,” he snaps. “My mom made it.” He eyes Izaya, forehead creasing as he considers the other’s empty hands. “Don’t you have anything to eat?”

Izaya shrugs again, moves past Shizuo towards one of the benches. “It’s a pain to bring something,” he says, looking out towards the fence around the top of the roof and pitching his voice into casual unconcern. “I have better things to do with my time.”

“Lunch is important,” Shizuo growls, his tone hovering at the edge of irritation. The bench shifts under Izaya; when he glances sideways Shizuo’s settling next to him, looking down at the bag as he unknots the top of it. His hair tips in front of his face; when he speaks again Izaya can’t see his eyes at all, only the shift of his throat when he coughs before saying, “You can have some of mine, if you want” as roughly as if he’s offering some kind of an insult.

Izaya doesn’t look away from the shadows over Shizuo’s face. When he speaks his voice is a little strained, tense around the sincerity of the smile threatening his lips. “I don’t know,” he says, aiming for teasing he doesn’t quite hit. “Not if it’ll make me a monster like you.”

Shizuo lifts his head out of the shadows, rolls his eyes towards the sky so Izaya can see the way the sunlight turns them to hazel. “It’s not my  _lunch_ ,” he sighs, irritated and resigned at once. “Kasuka eats the same things I do and he’s just as skinny as you are.”

“Kasuka?” Izaya asks without looking away from the light catching off Shizuo’s face.

“My little brother,” Shizuo clarifies. “He’s a brat too. Not as bad as  _you_ , but.”

Izaya grins. When he reaches out it’s to nudge the lid of Shizuo’s lunch off, to fit his fingertips past the top and fish out a bite. “That’s good,” he says as Shizuo looks down to catch him mid-movement, to start a growl of protest as Izaya lifts his fingers to his mouth. “As long as I don’t have any competition.”

The resigned frustration in Shizuo’s eyes says he doesn’t have anything to worry about.


	8. Jealousy

“This is ridiculous,” Shizuo says to Izaya, his head tipped up just enough for him to send a glare in the other boy’s direction. Izaya can see the dark of Shizuo’s eyes if he glances down, can watch the other’s mouth tense every time Izaya takes a deliberately unsteady step to let his weight wobble along the railing he’s pacing on. “Why can’t we do something at school like all the other clubs do?”

“Don’t be stingy, Shizuo-senpai,” Izaya says, stretching his arms wide to balance himself and tilting his head sideways so he can look down at the top of Shizuo’s dark head, can flash a grin in response to the glower Shizuo gives him. “The whole point of the club is to let me study you in your natural habitat. There’s no point if I have to rely on your word of a normal family life.”

“Why are you so sure it’s  _not_  normal?” Shizuo asks. “You’re going to be disappointed if you’re expecting some kind of drama.”

“You can say anything you like,” Izaya says, looking up towards the sky to watch the clouds shifting overhead, the grey edges of the ones on the horizon suggesting a rainshower he’ll need to avoid later. “I could tell you I live in a mansion with a dozen maids to wait on me hand and foot. Would you believe me just because I said so?”

“I don’t believe anything you say,” Shizuo says. He reaches for Izaya’s ankle, his fingers skimming against the hem of the other’s pants as Izaya takes another too-lengthy stride. “Get down from there.”

“You probably shouldn’t,” Izaya observes, ignoring the halfhearted command in favor of continuing his progression along the concrete lip, the extra feet of height enough to let him stand above Shizuo and look down at the sidewalk with a perspective just far enough from normal to seem excitingly foreign. “I have this terrible habit of lying.”

“I’ve noticed,” Shizuo deadpans, and then the railing ends, dipping off to rejoin the sidewalk Shizuo’s been walking on. Izaya leaps down rather than traversing the slope down to the concrete; when he lands it’s hard enough that his shoes smack loud on the cement, enough that he can feel the jolt run all the way up his legs to ache in his knees before he takes his next step.

“Do your parents even know I’m coming over?” Izaya asks, skipping a pair of steps to fall into pace with Shizuo’s slightly longer stride. When he swings his arm it’s out-of-time with Shizuo’s, his elbow catching hard enough to crush a bruise against the other’s arm, but Shizuo doesn’t even flinch, just takes his next step diagonally so it’s just their sleeves brushing and not their arms.

“They’re not home until late tonight,” he says, sounding frustratingly calm and not at all defensive as Izaya would prefer him to be. “It’ll just be us and Kasuka.”

“The beloved brother,” Izaya drawls, and steps in closer again to crowd his arm against Shizuo’s. “Does  _he_  know I’m coming for dinner?”

“He won’t care,” Shizuo declares with such absolute confidence that even Izaya can’t find a crack to prod. “Kasuka doesn’t mind anything.”

“He sounds  _scintillating_ ,” Izaya taunts.

“Shut up,” Shizuo snaps, his voice regaining some of the heat Izaya’s looking for. “He’s a lot easier to be around than you are.”

“Senpai, you wound me,” Izaya says, making a show of pressing his hand to his chest as he looks sideways through his hair at Shizuo. The other boy is watching him, a glare pressed into the crease at his forehead; the fixed line of his mouth says he’s completely focused on Izaya’s movements. Izaya thinks a car could hit the other and Shizuo might not notice until he were on the ground for how utterly intent that gaze is. “Don’t you appreciate my company?”

“Shut up,” Shizuo orders. “Or I’ll leave you here and you can have dinner by yourself.”

Izaya laughs, sharpens the edge of the sound just to prove that he doesn’t care about the threat before he subsides after all, relinquishing teasing for a stretch of silence between them for the remaining few blocks. Shizuo keeps eyeing him anyway, as on-edge for a return of speech as if Izaya had kept talking, and that’s really all Izaya wanted anyway.

The house they stop at is precisely as ordinary as promised. Izaya  _is_  almost disappointed; there’s no sign of permanent structural damage to the house, no indication of a young Shizuo’s rampages through the flowers out front. There’s just a neat garden, a tree spreading shade over the front yard, the glimpse of sheets fluttering on clotheslines at the side of the house;  _ordinary_ , Izaya thinks, and “Boring,” Izaya says, heaving the word into a sigh as Shizuo climbs the steps to the front door.

Shizuo looks back at him, the suspicion of his mouth hardening into a frown. “I  _told_  you,” he says, unlocking the front door with enough force that Izaya can hear the frame creak protest at the abuse. “It’s just a  _house_.”

“I didn’t think you were  _serious_ ,” Izaya teases, and then the door comes open and there’s a voice, a high chirp of “Shizuo!” before a dark-haired boy catapults himself out of the house and into a hug. Izaya takes a step backwards, reflexive retreat from movement he can’t immediately parse, but Shizuo doesn’t move, doesn’t even seem particularly fazed by this sudden attack.

“Shinra,” he says, the name turned to resignation on his tongue. “What are you doing here?”

“He showed up ten minutes ago,” comes another voice, slower and steadier; when Izaya blinks away from the form still squeezing affection into Shizuo’s shoulders there’s another boy emerging from the hallway of the house. He’s barefoot, his shoulders slumped into disinterest and his body relaxed except for the cup of pudding he’s in the middle of eating, and his features are so reminiscent of Shizuo’s that Izaya knows his name without being introduced. “He’s been poking through the house while he waited for you.”

“I haven’t seen you since school started,” the not-brother -- Shinra -- announces, finally letting Shizuo go and taking a step back to a safer range. His hair is dark, longer and tidier than Shizuo’s, his eyes half-hidden behind the glare of glasses. His smile is easy, comfortable on familiarity, and something awful twists itself into Izaya’s chest, a knot of tension turning itself over like it’s nestling into the space between his spine and ribs. “Aren’t we friends, Shizuo?”

“I’ve been busy,” Shizuo growls. “I joined a club.”

“No way,” Shinra says, sounding shocked and delighted at the same time. “I’m so jealous, Celty tells me I should join one but none of them are interesting at all.”

“Can’t you just start your own?” Izaya asks, his voice lancing through the air with all the sharp edge of a blade under it. Shinra and Shizuo turn as one to look at him; Shinra looks surprised, Shizuo resigned, and Izaya is just starting to narrow his eyes when Shinra laughs so suddenly and so loudly Izaya’s rising irritation stalls against the sound.

“Sorry!” he says, and he’s moving away from Shizuo, offering his hand and a smile so bright Izaya’s instincts insist it must be a ploy even though he can see no trace of deception under it. “Celty always says I don’t know how to act like a normal person. I’m Kishitani Shinra.”

“Orihara Izaya,” Izaya allows, pulling a smile onto his face that he can feel die away well before it nears his eyes. Shinra’s handshake is firm, a little awkward in the angle of his hand and the deliberateness of his motion, but it lacks the aching pressure of Shizuo’s. When Shinra lets his hand go Izaya angles it behind his back so he can curl his fingers into a fist, can reach for the burn of strain by tensing his fingers on the motion.

“Are you Shizuo’s friend?” Shinra asks, like it’s an easy title to affix, as if there’s no weight to the phrase at all. “He’s an exciting guy, isn’t he?”

“He’s in the club with him,” another voice says, a flatline monotone that brings Izaya’s attention up and away from Shinra, back to the doorway where Kasuka is scraping at the last of his pudding. He brings the spoon to his mouth, sucks it clean without looking up. “Shizuo won’t stop talking about him.”

“Shut up,  _Kasuka_ ,” Shizuo snaps. He’s glaring when Izaya looks over at him, his chin tipped down to cast his features into shadow that doesn’t entirely hide the embarrassed color rising along his cheeks. “It’s only because I’m around him all day.”

Kasuka shrugs, a lift of his shoulders that says  _whatever_  more succinctly than words and turns away to pad down the hall back into the house. Shinra follows, taking one extra-long step to get back to the interior floor, and Izaya is left to twist towards Shizuo, to raise an eyebrow along with the corner of his mouth and wait.

Shizuo glances at him before looking away almost immediately. He’s visibly pink, the hunch of his shoulders threatening defensive anger if Izaya could only figure out which buttons to push. “Don’t you dare say anything,” he growls, biting the words off so sharply Izaya can see the flash of his teeth in the gaps between the words. “It’s only because you’re such a pest.”

“Sure,” Izaya drawls, pulling the word long and skeptical, and Shizuo makes a wordless noise of frustration and strides forward towards the house, moving quickly enough that he’s free of his shoes by the time Izaya steps through the entrance behind him.

Izaya doesn’t ask if Shizuo talks about Shinra too. He doesn’t really want the answer.


	9. Contact

“He’s totally obsessed,” Shizuo says while he unfastens the knot on his lunchbag. “He won’t shut up about her no matter what you say.”

“I noticed.” Izaya’s biting off the words, snapping them short before they can turn into his usual teasing drawl, but Shizuo doesn’t look at him; he’s watching the motion of his hands instead, unfolding the cloth around the box as if everything is perfectly ordinary. His hair is tangled behind one ear; Izaya stares at it, hard, willing the weight of it to slide free and fall into the other’s face. It’s just starting to tip free when Shizuo reaches up to push it back again and undo the possibility.

“Shinra’s a good guy,” Shizuo goes on, tipping the lid off his lunch and kicking back to lean against the wall behind them with the elegance of someone completely unselfconscious in spite of all Izaya’s efforts to set him on edge. Izaya looks away as Shizuo turns to glance at him, draws his legs in closer against his chest so he can hunch his shoulders over his knees.

“Yeah,” he says, staring out over the rooftop at the fence marking out the perimeter. “You definitely have a  _great_  track record in character judgment.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo says, bumping his elbow into Izaya’s side with a force that would be enough to knock the other over if he weren’t bracing himself for the impact. “I  _know_  you’re a horrible person.” He takes a bite out of the box with his fingers; Izaya doesn’t look at him, even after he’s swallowed and is reaching for another. There’s a pause, a hesitation that says that something  _finally_  made it to Shizuo’s attention; then, fast and a little worried, “Aren’t you going to eat something?”

“I’m not hungry,” Izaya lies, glancing sideways only long enough to drag a disparaging stare over the familiar contents of Shizuo’s lunchbox. “And definitely not for  _that_.”

“Fuck you,” Shizuo says, retreating to some of his more usual rough irritation as he draws the lunch away from the midline between them and closer towards himself. But he leaves it there without the retort or even the shove that would let Izaya snap back, that would give him the relief of laughter or pain either one, and for the next several seconds they sit in silence that Izaya can feel growing as tense as the strain running along his spine.

It’s Shizuo who speaks next, clearing his throat out of audible awkwardness and pausing in his progress through his lunch. “Do you want to come over again tonight?” Izaya looks at him sideways without turning his head; Shizuo is staring at him, brows drawn together on irritated concern, even his shoulders angling in like he’s focusing solely on Izaya. Izaya looks away again.

“I have a lit assignment I have to get done,” Shizuo goes on, his voice going lower as his frustration rises; Izaya listens to it crest in his voice, listens to the grate of it catching off the consonants, and keeps his eyes open and staring at the far fence so Shizuo will think he’s not listening. “You must have something you could work on.”

“I don’t know,” Izaya says, and he  _is_  drawling, now, slurring the words into a taunt stretched over the ache of tension knotted in his chest. “I might be busy tonight.”

“Don’t be  _stupid_ ,” Shizuo snaps. “What else do you have to do except homework?”

“All kinds of things,” Izaya says. The lie is sour on his tongue, curling against the back of his throat like a burn. “You’re not the only person I spend time with, senpai.”

There is a long pause. Izaya can feel his skin prickling hot under his uniform, the casual slump of his shoulders something he has to cling to as his whole body tenses in anticipation of a fight, of a punch, of an entire relationship crumbling under the force of his own words. There’s a rush to it, a shudder of adrenaline that whips anticipation through him, and he’ll be sorry to lose this but there’s a thrill to the destruction too, something satisfying in casting a match and watching the lick of flames consume the careful work of weeks.

“Fuck,” Shizuo says, and the word is right but the tone is wrong, so much heavier and lower than Izaya expected that he almost turns to look before he catches himself. “Are you  _jealous_?”

Izaya can feel his shoulders stiffen. It’s a reflexive response to the accuracy of the question, one he’d stop if he could, but it’s happening before he has a chance to restrain himself, his spine tensing in a way that renders any attempt at denial useless before it’s begun.

“Why would I be jealous?” he tries anyway, hoping that Shizuo is less astute than Izaya is himself, hoping that his reaction passed unnoticed, hoping that Shizuo wasn’t looking and that his voice is passably steady and--

“Oh my god,” Shizuo groans, and Izaya’s skin goes cold with awareness that he’s been caught out. “Shinra’s my  _friend_.  _You’re_  my friend. People can have more than one at a time, you know.”

 _I know that_ , Izaya wants to say, wants to swing the words into a manic laugh and make this into a joke, wants to draw Shizuo into anger at being teased so he can buy time to compose himself. Normal  _people have more than two, senpai, normal people don’t have to kidnap themselves club members on the first day of school_. But if he opens his mouth he’s not sure what will come out, and his throat is too tight for words anyway, so he keeps his lips pressed together into a line, and keeps his eyes focused on the fence going hazy to his unblinking stare, and doesn’t say anything at all.

“Jesus,” Shizuo sighs, and then the physical contact comes, but it’s not the punch Izaya expected. It’s a hand in his hair, fingers shoving against the back of his neck and ruffling awkwardly through the strands, like Shizuo’s attempting a form of comfort he’s seen but not practiced. All the air in Izaya’s lungs leaves his body at once in a rush of shocked heat spilling past his lips, and it’s too loud and it must be perfectly obvious but Shizuo doesn’t pull away, just drags his hand roughly across the top of Izaya’s head before he draws his touch back. Izaya looks up, too startled and electric with the unexpected physical contact to remember why he’s not meeting Shizuo’s gaze, and Shizuo’s looking down at his lunch again, a frown at his lips and that crease still in his forehead.

“You’re a goddamn mess,” he says. When he glances up it’s only for a moment, just long enough for his eyes to skim Izaya’s face and whatever expression he’s making; Izaya has no idea what is in his eyes, what is at his mouth, but Shizuo looks away again, grabs at the lunchbox and moves it towards the other boy by a handful of inches.

“I’m still your friend too,” Shizuo says, taking his turn to stare at the fence while Izaya stares at him. His hair is still tucked behind his ear. “I’m not going to abandon you or whatever it is you think I’m going to do. Okay?”

Izaya breathes in, hard, a long inhale through his nose and past the knot in his throat. When he lets it out it’s past his lips, carefully shaping the air so it carries the silent tremor of emotion with it as it goes.

“Whatever you say,” he says in his own voice. When he smiles the tug at the corner of his mouth is familiar, the shape of teasing forming itself before he’s even said the words. “I’m relying on you, Shizuo-senpai.”

“Oh, shut up,” Shizuo says, going pink across his cheeks.

Izaya laughs and reaches for the lunch between them.


	10. Company

“There are better things we could be doing,” Izaya says for the third time since he and Shizuo left school and started the half-hour walk back to Izaya’s house. “I guarantee even staying at school would be more entertaining.”

“You keep saying that,” Shizuo says. Izaya can see the other boy looking at him in his periphery, can see Shizuo’s mouth drawn into a frown of intent consideration. “Which is what  _I_  said when you wanted to come over to my place. This is what friends do, you know.”

“I just don’t want you to be disappointed,” Izaya says as airily as he can manage and skips a step forward so he doesn’t have to meet Shizuo’s gaze. “With your wealth of greater experience I’m sure my home will be tragically mundane for you.”

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Shizuo demands mostly rhetorically, or at least close enough to it that Izaya doesn’t have to answer. “You keep telling me all sorts of different stories about your home and then I actually want to come over and you get all weird about it.” He huffs a sigh, irritation on the sound more than the suspicion Izaya’s really afraid of. “If you don’t want to have me over you can just say so.”

“Of course I want you to come over,” Izaya says, the words slick on their lack of sincerity. “That’s what friends do,” in a growl, the closest imitation of Shizuo’s voice he can easily attain. “And we’re friends, right, Shizuo-senpai?”

“Unfortunately,” Shizuo sighs, sounding irritated, sounding  _distracted_ , and some of the strain in Izaya’s chest eases as the oncoming stress distances itself by a few minutes. The teasing is enough to keep Shizuo rumbling frustration for the last half mile of the walk, enough to give Izaya the motivation to keep up a manic string of taunts, until by the time his feet stop him in front of a familiar address he’s almost managed to forget where they are headed.

“Here,” he says, turning off the main street before Shizuo has had a chance to stop in response to his statement. Izaya’s hands are shaking as he fishes his keys out of his pocket; he keeps his focus on them, deliberately steadies his motions so the metal will stop clicking against itself. He can feel Shizuo’s eyes on him, clinging to the carefully graceful movement of his hands, skipping up to the darkened windows and quiet interior of the house, but the other boy doesn’t speak, something for which Izaya is more grateful than he will ever admit.

“My humble abode,” he says as the door comes open onto the dark of the interior. He reaches for the lightswitch as he steps inside, casts the entryway into illumination as he flicks it; now he has his shoes to look at instead of Shizuo’s face. “Do I need to invite you in like a vampire, senpai?”

Shizuo steps in after Izaya, pulling the door closed behind him, but he doesn’t rise to Izaya’s bait, isn’t even looking at the other boy anymore. He’s considering their surroundings instead, frowning into the shadows of the deserted hallways and the empty table by the front door. “Isn’t anyone home?”

“Oh no,” Izaya answers, hearing his voice skip into strain before he can catch it back to feigned amusement. “My sisters won’t be home from preschool for another hour.”

Shizuo looks back at him, his frown deepening, his forehead creasing. “What about your mom?”

“Business trip.” Izaya looks away, bringing unneeded attention to the task of toeing off his shoe. “We have the place to ourselves. Exciting, isn’t it?” He kicks his shoes aside, turns and heads for the stairs before he has to meet Shizuo’s gaze.

“Wait,” Shizuo says from behind him. There’s a scuff of sound, a wordless grumble as he struggles out of his own shoes, and then footsteps, long strides to take two stairs for each of Izaya’s one and catch up to him. “You’re all alone in this house?”

“Sure,” Izaya says without turning around. His shoulders are tight, his throat aching, but he doesn’t meet the gaze he can feel pressing against his spine. “I can take care of myself.”

“What about your sisters?” They’re at the top of the stairs; Izaya heads down the hallway without bothering with the light, keeping the advantage familiarity gives him over Shizuo as he navigates towards the door to his room.

“They’re twins,” Izaya says, deliberately misunderstanding the question. “They’re only four, they spend most of the day at preschool.” He opens the door, flicking the light on as he steps forward into the space. “I’m sure we can find something to eat for dinner when they get here.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Shizuo says, frustration half-hiding the concern under his tone. Izaya tosses his bag onto the desk chair, stares unseeing at the far wall while Shizuo talks to his shoulders. “Doesn’t anyone care what you  _do_?”

Izaya’s laugh is too loud. He knows it is, knows it’s harsh and raw-edged and veering dangerously towards mania, so near even Shizuo will be able to hear, but he can’t hold it back any more than he can keep the grin off his face as he turns, finally, to face Shizuo’s pity.

“Of course they don’t,” he says, bright and sharp and so vicious he can taste blood on his tongue, can feel the cold edge of metal under the words. “Why  _should_  they?”

Shizuo stares at him for a long moment. Izaya can see the range of emotions he’s shifting through -- pity, yes, the sympathy that Izaya doesn’t want turning his eyes soft and his frown gentle, but there’s anger, too, the temptation of rage too close to be ignored in the face of Izaya’s deliberately incendiary tone. Izaya can see threat setting itself at Shizuo’s jaw, the possibility of a punch balling itself into tension at his knuckles and straining at his arm, and he hopes, as he always hopes, for that threat to turn to reality, for the blossoming hurt of a fist crushing his cheekbone or cracking a rib, for the satisfaction of the fight that always seems just over the horizon when Shizuo’s with him.

“I do,” Shizuo says, and Izaya’s been staring so hard at his hands that it takes him a moment to catch up with his speech. When he looks back up Shizuo is glaring at him, the hair falling into his face casting the color of his eyes into shadow. “Okay?”

He delivers the word like a statement of war, like declaring his concern for Izaya’s well-being is the precursor to violence. From the way Izaya’s body tenses on adrenaline, Shizuo’s not the only one who thinks of it that way.

“Fine,” Izaya says, like he’s calm, like he doesn’t care, like his heart isn’t going so fast in his chest he can’t tell if it’s tears or fury knotting in his throat. “You can do whatever you want, senpai, I don’t care.”

“Good,” Shizuo says, and turns away without calling Izaya out on the lie so obvious it’s still quivering unsteady in the air. “Are you playing shogi?”

Izaya follows Shizuo’s gaze to the shogi tiles laid out somewhat haphazardly on the board standing on the floor. “Obviously not,” he says, letting his voice drip condescension while he breathes around the easing tension in his body. “That’s a  _goban_ , it’s not for shogi. How uncultured  _are_  you?”

Shizuo glares at him. “Those are shogi tiles, aren’t they?” he snaps. “What are you  _playing_?”

Izaya stares at him, lets his grin slide wide on his face. Shizuo’s eyes narrow into suspicion but he doesn’t look away, even when Izaya takes a step closer to him.

“I’ll show you,” he says, stepping past Shizuo to sit on the far side of the goban. “You can play the other side.”

Izaya wins the first match, and the second. By the start of the third Shizuo’s irritation at Izaya’s mismatch of rules to pieces is visible in the heat of his glare and the set of his frown. The sound of the front door opening is more than enough excuse for him to abandon the game midway in favor of first meeting and then looking after Mairu and Kururi while Izaya goes through the cupboards for something that vaguely approximates a full meal.

Izaya doesn’t tell Shizuo how little he minds the company.


	11. Pity

“You’re late,” Izaya comments as the door to the roof opens to admit Shizuo some ten minutes after Izaya’s own arrival. “Did you manage to get yourself into a fight on your way up here?”

“Shut up,” Shizuo says, the phrase so habitual he doesn’t even sound like he’s really thinking about it. “I had to turn in an extra homework assignment to make up for my test last week.”

“Oh yeah.” Izaya kicks his legs out, lets his feet fall open as Shizuo drops to sit next to him against the shade of the wall. “The one you failed.”

“Be quiet,” Shizuo snaps with only a faint trace of ire. “It’s not like you’re a perfect student yourself.”

“It’s not worth the effort,” Izaya says airily. Shizuo’s looking at his lunch, his shoulders hunching in over the shape of it; Izaya can see his hair fall forward off the back of his neck, can see the suggestion of a bruise coming in against Shizuo’s jawline. His knuckles are raw on one hand, too, telltale for some fight Izaya doesn’t remember seeing. “There are much better ways to spend my time than studying.” He reaches out, ghosts his fingers against the edge of Shizuo’s jaw; when the other boy startles back Izaya grins, his fingers left hanging in midair. “Who got themselves killed this time?”

Shizuo frowns at him. “No one,” he says, looks back down at the knot under his fingers. “I got jumped by a color gang on the way back to my place yesterday. It’s no big deal.”

“I suppose no one would miss one or two of them,” Izaya agrees easily, still watching the bruise come in and out of focus as the sunlight dapples Shizuo’s skin. “Do you need me to walk you home safely, senpai?”

“You are the most annoying person,” Shizuo says with absolute conviction. “You  _do_  know that, don’t you?”

“I’m so flattered,” Izaya purrs. “After just a few weeks of dedicating myself to tormenting you, you break so easily?” He’s going to go on -- some cut about Shizuo being weaker mentally than he is physically, or a comment about setting a bad example for his kouhai -- but then he sees the box in Shizuo’s bag, or rather box _es_ , and he goes silent with a wave of premonition.

Shizuo doesn’t look at him. “Here,” he says, picking up the top one and holding it out sideways towards Izaya, like it’s some kind of bomb that he’d like to have as far from himself as possible when it goes off. “This one’s yours.”

Izaya glances at the box, looks back at Shizuo. The other boy still isn’t looking at him. There’s pressure at Izaya’s chest, a weight like a knot forming itself inside his ribs, twisting his stomach sick and sour with unhappiness, with embarrassment, with the self-consciousness he likes least of all possible emotions.

“I don’t want it,” he says, and there’s a bite on the words that he doesn’t bother to strip off. “Thanks but no thanks.”

“You know, you’re a lot less cute when you’re sulky,” Shizuo sighs. “Come on, I know you’re hungry, you’re  _always_  hungry.” He keeps holding the box out; after a moment he looks back over his shoulder to meet Izaya’s gaze.

“Come on,” he says, and his voice catches on the second word. “Just  _take_  it, Izaya-kun.”

It’s the stumble in his voice, Izaya thinks, that does the trick. There’s something strangely charming in the juxtaposition of those raw bruises and bloody knuckles with the cracking voice of the middle schooler Shizuo is in age if not in physical strength. Izaya stares at the plea in Shizuo’s eyes, and takes a breath, and reaches out to take the lunchbox.

“I see how it is,” Izaya says as he looks away and down at the weight of the box in his hands. When he slides the lid off the contents are familiar, a perfect match for Shizuo’s next to him. “You don’t want to share with me anymore. Selfishness is a terrible thing, you know, senpai.”

Shizuo groans. Izaya can see him roll his eyes, can see him tip his head back to gaze frustration up to the blue sky overhead. “That’s not why,” he sighs.

“You can’t hide it from me,” Izaya declares as he takes a bite from his box. It’s delicious enough that any attempt to pretend otherwise is rendered immediately unfeasible. It’s somewhat frustrating. “Really, I thought you were a bigger person than that.” Shizuo’s glaring at him, irritation setting itself into lines across his face; his lunch is still in his hands, braced between the pressure of his thumbs, but his attention is on Izaya’s face and not on the open lid.

“We’ll have to work on your generosity,” Izaya says, and reaches out as fast as he can to snatch a bite out of Shizuo’s box. Shizuo is slow to react to the movement, slower to realize what’s happening; Izaya’s swallowing by the time the other is voicing protest, grinning as Shizuo’s steady-state frown collapses into a glower.

“You have your own,” Shizuo snaps, and he’s reaching out this time, rifling through Izaya’s lunch with far less dexterity or speed than the other showed. Izaya lets him, has a grin ready by the time Shizuo looks back up at him.

“It’s more fun to take from yours,” he points out, once he’s sure he has the other boy’s attention again. “Don’t you think so?”

“You’re so annoying,” Shizuo growls. “ _Such_  a pest, I should never have talked to you in the first place.”

“But you did,” Izaya says, leaning in to take another bite out of Shizuo’s box before following it up with one from his own. “Isn’t having a cute kouhai worth it in the end?”

“You are  _not_  cute,” Shizuo growls. “You are the  _worst_.”

“You’re hurting my feelings, senpai,” Izaya whines, hitting the highest, most pathetic range he can muster. “You’re going to make me cry.”

“I don’t think you know what tears are,” Shizuo declares. “That would require a  _heart_ , which you definitely don’t have.”

“Are you the resident expert on humanity?” Izaya asks with as much innocent sincerity as he can muster. “Did you have to learn that to complete your masquerade as a real boy instead of a monster?”

“Stop calling me that.” Shizuo reaches out to shove at Izaya’s shoulder; Izaya capitulates to the force, tips himself far further sideways than even the Shizuo-strength impact requires while balancing his lunch to keep it from suffering the same fate as the rest of him.

“I’m only telling the truth,” he says as he straightens, taking another bite from his box before reaching for Shizuo’s again. “You don’t want me to  _lie_ , do you?”

Shizuo takes three bites from Izaya’s lunch for that one. Izaya figures he deserves it, and anyway, it’s worth it to trade the irritation in the other’s dark eyes for the pity that was there before.


	12. Self-Awareness

Izaya misses the best part of the fight.

It’s a shame, really. He didn’t hear the telltale shouts of a brawl until he was leaving the dimly-lit doorway to the basement where his weekly poker games are held, and even then he was only vaguely considering actually following the sound to its source before he heard the growl of a voice too familiar to be mistaken. He moved fast, then, cutting across the alleyway and the intervening street without waiting for the safety of a crosswalk, but even so he arrives too late to see anything much more than a dozen unconscious bodies still on the street. Shizuo is on his feet, of course, as are two of his attackers; they’re wearing blue, Izaya notes as the first comes in with a wild swing, both of their shirts tagged with the designation that marks them out as one of the newer color gangs in the city. Shizuo’s retaliatory strike is barely an effort at all; his fist connects with the attacker’s face, the impact creating a  _crunch_  Izaya can hear even from the distance of the cross-street, and the man is thrown backwards like he’s walked into a hurricane, falling to the ground in a spray of blood that hangs in the air in an arc for a brief, breathless moment. Shizuo turns towards the last, his shoulders squared up into something raw and feral, his hands tight on fists at his sides, and Izaya can’t see his face but he can imagine the scowl he’s wearing, can see the shadows in Shizuo’s face in the reflection of terror in the last attacker’s eyes.

“Fuck,” the man says, taking a stumbling step backwards without looking away from Shizuo’s approach. The motion would be more effective, Izaya thinks, if it were slower, if it evoked the feeling of a stalking predator to crack through his enemies’ psychological defenses. Instead it’s direct, a straight-line motion of greatest efficiency, a weapon instead of a threat, a blow instead of a warning, a tool rendered ineffective by the lack of a wielder. Izaya can feel his fingers ache; it’s not until he feels the hurt against his skin that he realizes he’s made a fist of his hand and is dragging his nails unconsciously across his palm.

“We’ll be back,” the gang member attempts. It’s weak, Izaya can see him caving to animal fear even as he makes a vain attempt to reclaim some sense of malice on behalf of his group. “We’ll remember you. You’ll regret making an enemy of Blue Square, kid.”

Shizuo  _growls_. Izaya can hear it from the corner, can feel it in his bones and shuddering through his blood, and the Blue Square member cracks, his attempt at intimidation evaporating as he bolts towards the main street and away from Shizuo. Izaya steps to the side as the other approaches, makes space for him to beeline for the freedom of the main street; he doesn’t care about low-level members of an unimportant gang when Shizuo’s still breathing hard and dripping blood in front of him.

“Another one down,” Izaya calls as he comes forward, picking his way over groaning gang members as the most resilient start to emerge back into consciousness. “Soon every major crime organization in the city will have a vendetta against you, senpai. Congratulations.”

Shizuo frowns at Izaya, entirely ignoring his comment. “What are you  _doing_  here?”

Izaya shrugs. “I heard the fight from a few blocks away.” He steps around the last fallen opponent, coming forward into Shizuo’s effective range. He gets a glare for his trouble, frustration framed by the rising color of a black eye over Shizuo’s right cheekbone. “Too bad I missed the best part of it.”

“ _Best_ ,” Shizuo repeats, scoffing harsh over the word. He pushes his hair back and off his forehead; he’s got a cut across the back of his hand, a tear clean enough that it has to be from a weapon of some kind. “You’re really fucked up, you know that?” The strands of his hair catch damp on each other and stay in place when he draws his hand free to frown at the blood on his palm. “You shouldn’t be here, you’ll get yourself hurt.”

“Says the one bleeding onto the street,” Izaya comments with perfect calm in his tone, and gets another glare for his trouble. “I can take care of myself, senpai.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Shizuo says. He looks away, down at the cut across the back of his hand; when he makes a fist the skin pulls, the forming scab tearing wider, and he grimaces. “I could break you with one hand.”

Izaya is glad Shizuo isn’t looking at him. The flush that hits him is impossible to restrain; it rushes along his spine, electricity spiking hot into his blood at the idea of Shizuo’s rage turned on him, at the thought of facing down the shadows in the other’s dark eyes and laughing a dare back at them, at the possibility of Shizuo’s blood bright against the edge of a blade or smeared over Izaya’s skin. He can imagine bruises, fingerprints at his shoulder or laid into his wrist, and then he has to stop, has to take a breath and shove the thought away, because Shizuo is looking back up and Izaya has to find a smirk for him before his expression gives him away.

“Probably,” he allows, his tone turning even the simple agreement into a taunt. “You’d have to catch me first, though.”

Shizuo’s eyebrows go up. “You’d just be running, that’s not a fight.”

“You can’t win if you can’t catch me.” Izaya steps in close, moving fast enough that Shizuo reels back instinctively as Izaya flicks hard against his forehead. Shizuo hisses at the hurt, his expression darkening to anger, but Izaya is dancing backwards, skipping over the sprawled limbs of unconscious opponents and grinning the wider as Shizuo frowns at him. “Besides,” he continues, lilting the words into an easy rhythm as he slides a hand into his pocket. “Just because you don’t indulge in weapons doesn’t mean no one else does.” He draws his hand free fast, snapping his wrist into a blur-fast motion too fast to track, and Shizuo stumbles backwards, caught off-guard and off-balance by the expectation of a blade. For a breath Izaya has the satisfaction of seeing shock clear across Shizuo’s face, of watching dark eyes gone wide with surprise at what he expects to see; then Shizuo processes the absence of a knife, sees that the suggestive angle of Izaya’s hand lacks the weight to turn it into a real threat, and he starts to growl fury as Izaya starts to laugh.

“Did you think I actually had something?” he asks, dodging backwards as Shizuo advances with the steady-slow pace of an unstoppable force. “Senpai, really, you have to get better at judging people. Where would I get a  _knife_?”

“Anywhere,” Shizuo snaps, his hand coming out to grab at Izaya’s wrist as the other makes another deliberate flourish through the air. His hold stops the motion dead in its tracks, stalls Izaya’s action where it is; Izaya doesn’t try to struggle, offers instead a smirk that makes his capitulation look voluntary instead of forced. “From wherever you go that you’re not supposed to be.”

Izaya raises an eyebrow, tips his head to the side to skew his smile even more lopsided than it is to begin with. “I go a  _lot_  of places I shouldn’t, senpai,” he purrs. “Can’t you be more specific?”

Shizuo rolls his eyes. “ _No_ ,” he snaps, and lets his hold on Izaya’s wrist go without warning. Izaya’s hand drops to his side; he resists the urge to close his opposite hand on the lingering friction on his skin, to press and see if there’s the possibility of a bruise forming into a shadow under the cuff of his school uniform. “I don’t know where the hell you go half the time. You’re going to get yourself hurt if you keep playing with this part of the city.”

Izaya laughs, feels the sound tripping along the edge of hysteria in his chest as Shizuo’s eyes narrow. “I’m not the one getting into fistfights in the middle of Ikebukuro,” he points out, sweeping his gaze pointedly across the array of forms lying still or groaning pain from the level of the street. “You’ll get expelled before you even take your high school entrance exams if you keep acting like a delinquent, Shizuo-senpai.”

“I’m  _not_ \--” Shizuo starts, but he cuts himself off before he can say something obviously disproved by their surroundings. His frown is all for Izaya, as if the other is personally responsible for his predicament. “They  _attacked_  me. It’s not like I came out here to pick a fight.”

“You always say that,” Izaya observes. “Funny how you always end up in one anyway.”

“I don’t  _want_  to be,” Shizuo says, and at last he looks away, frowning out at the main street instead of at Izaya. His shoulders hunch in, his hands unclenching enough that he can stuff them in his pockets. For a sudden, startling moment, he looks young, looks human, looks like the thirteen-year-old boy he sometimes passes for, like the bruises across his face and the blood matting his hair are an unfortunate accident instead of a regular occurrence. “I hate this.”

The words are low, soft in the space between the two of them like they’re a confession regardless of the array of others still around their feet. Izaya is very sure there is no one listening to them but him anyway, and that’s enough to give them the weight of a secret, to forge another of the bonds of intimacy that tangle together into something even he might call friendship.

“That doesn’t really matter,” Izaya says, louder than Shizuo spoke, clear like he’s projecting to a roomful of people. “It’s not like it’s going to stop happening just because you want it to.” He’s grinning when Shizuo looks at him, amusement in his expression instead of pity; he’s not sure he could muster sympathy in any case, and he doesn’t know if it would suit Shizuo’s mood better even if he could. “Are you really planning to spend the rest of your life moping about a fact of your existence you can’t change?” He flashes his teeth in a smile, angles his head back in the other direction. “Or are you going to embrace what you really are?”

Shizuo stares at him. “Which is?”

Izaya spreads his arms wide, lets his smile stretch to match. “Do I have to say it again?”

“You’re telling me to accept that I’m a monster,” Shizuo says, the words flat with disbelief.

“It’s better than hating yourself, isn’t it?” Izaya turns his back on the fallen gang members and steps out towards the main street. He’s not surprised when there are footsteps behind him falling into the pace of a jog as Shizuo’s strides catch him up.

“I don’t hate myself,” Shizuo informs him, so defensive on the words any sincerity is lost before they’re formed.

“I know you do,” Izaya says without turning around. “It’s alright though,” he declares, loud over Shizuo’s hiss of irritation at his disagreement. “I don’t hate you, even if you are a monster.”

There’s a pause. Then: “Shut up,” Shizuo says, sounding only a little bit embarrassed, and Izaya grins at the empty street before them and lets Shizuo catch up to fall into step with him.


	13. Claim

“Move over,” Shizuo growls from the edge of the kotatsu, giving Izaya a glare he can feel without looking up. “You’re taking up all the foot space.”

“I’m  _cold_ ,” Izaya protests, deliberately angling a knee wider to take up more of what is ostensibly Shizuo’s side of the kotatsu. “Some of us are still affected by unreasonably low temperatures. You really should be more considerate of those less inhumanly sturdy than yourself.”

“I’m cold too,” Shizuo insists, kicking against Izaya’s ankle with enough force to dislodge the other were he not actively braced for the impact. “You’re the one who decided to walk over here without a jacket.”

“I don’t like any of mine,” Izaya declares, drawing his feet back to save himself from more bruises from Shizuo’s heels and to let the other boy think he’s won the battle for a moment. Shizuo stretches out into the space, humming satisfaction at his victory, and Izaya promptly kicks his legs out to drop the weight of them atop Shizuo’s. “If I had a jacket I liked I’d wear it all the time.”

“That’s a stupid reason,” Shizuo informs him, reaching under the table to shove Izaya’s legs to a different angle instead of resting directly over his knees. Izaya lets him, doesn’t move back as Shizuo resumes his lean over the kotatsu; it’s more comfortable this way anyway, and Shizuo is better even than the kotatsu for radiating heat. “You could have taken it off as soon as you got here and you wouldn’t have shown up half-frozen.”

“I’m warming up,” Izaya points out, reaching across the table to push against one of the cups of tea Shizuo produced fifteen minutes after he arrived, around the time his shivers were dissipating and he could feel his hands again. “Thanks to my devoted senpai nursing me back from the brink of hypothermia.”

“Next time I’ll shut the door in your face and leave you to freeze.” Shizuo pushes the cup closer to Izaya’s side of the kotatsu, reaches for the other to take a sip himself. From how hot the ceramic is against Izaya’s palms, the liquid inside must still be scalding, but Shizuo doesn’t appear to be fazed in the slightest by the temperature. “You’ll hurt yourself if you keep being so reckless all the time.”

“You’re right,” Izaya drawls, letting his gaze drop to linger against the bandage wrapping all four fingers of Shizuo’s right hand. “I should really strive to be more calm and composed like you, senpai.”

He can see the bandage drag taut as Shizuo’s fingers curl into a fist, as his grip sketches out the shape of anger for the moment before he deliberately eases his hold. Izaya grins before he looks up to meet the spark in Shizuo’s gaze.

“Go to hell,” Shizuo says, rolling the edge of the phrase so often repeated they sound almost like an ordinary greeting. “I’m trying to help you. Why do you always insist on being such a pain?”

“It’s my nature,” Izaya informs him, angling one of his knees to dig in hard against the support of Shizuo’s legs under his. Shizuo hisses and Izaya grins wider, tips his head to the side as he brings the cup of steaming tea to his mouth and lets the haze cloud in front of his vision. “Do you usually demonstrate your concern by threatening to lock someone out of your home?”

“Only with you,” Shizuo says, kicking his feet free of Izaya’s so he can drop them heavy atop the other’s. Izaya hums, not wholly out of discomfort, and attempts a sip of the tea. It burns over his tongue and all the way down his throat to his stomach, but the warmth is welcome, even with the edge of discomfort the lingering heat leaves after he’s taken a breath of the cooler air of Shizuo’s home.

They lapse into silence for a moment. Shizuo appears content to pin Izaya’s legs to the floor with his own and to drink his tea with ungodly speed, and for his part Izaya is cradling his cup in still-cold hands, breathing in the aroma of the steam instead of risking another sip. The grip of the cold on his shoulders is fading, easing itself free of his blood and letting the ache in his fingers dissipate, until by the time Shizuo speaks -- down, angling the words at the table instead of to Izaya -- he’s close to comfort, very nearly drowsy with the pleasure of the warmth and the casual reassurance of someone else’s presence.

“Did you do anything crazy for Christmas?” Shizuo sounds gruff, the words coming from him like they’re the spoils of war; he’s frowning at the table, nearly glaring at his cup of tea as if it has personally wronged him. “Bet your life on a poker game, or take over a color gang, or something?”

“Please, senpai,” Izaya protests, adopting the best imitation of wounded innocence he can manage. “I’m a  _first year_.” He takes another careful sip of tea, breathes past the scald of the liquid in his throat. “I’m going to wait to take over a color gang until high school at least.”

Shizuo rolls his eyes. “Don’t joke about that,” he orders. “What  _did_  you do for Christmas?”

“Nothing,” Izaya says, raising his eyebrows and smirking down Shizuo’s incredulous stare. “I’m not always getting into trouble, you know. Besides, isn’t Christmas for young lovers?” He bats his eyelashes before dissolving into a laugh at the face Shizuo makes. “I just stayed home with my sisters.”

“And ate cup ramen for dinner?” Shizuo suggests, and Izaya doesn’t attempt to lie his way to a denial. “You’re going to starve if that’s all you ever eat.” Shizuo looks back at his cup, frowns at the liquid once more. “You should have brought them over here, at least then you’d get a real meal.”

“Aww,” Izaya drawls, twisting the sympathy on his tongue into something venomous and sharp. “Were you lonely on Christmas Eve, senpai?” Shizuo looks up, fixing Izaya with a glare that suggests silence to be the better course of action and which Izaya entirely ignores. “You can’t expect normal humans to want to spend time with a monster like you. What girl would want to go out with someone who could crush her as soon as she irritated him?”

“ _You’re_  here,” Shizuo points out with somewhat more coherency than he usually displays under this particular prod.

“I’m not normal,” Izaya says easily, capitulating the point if only for the satisfaction of seeing his immediate surrender trip up Shizuo’s attempt at a parry.

Shizuo rolls his eyes, gives up the argument with a hunch of his shoulders that looks like frustration and feels like the satisfaction of victory to Izaya. “Seriously,” he says, looking at the other sideways from under the fall of his hair. “Just come over next time.”

“If I’m not busy,” Izaya says lightly.

“What about New Year’s?” Shizuo comes back, so quickly Izaya is left blinking shock at the other boy and feeling vaguely like he was set up for this conclusion. “Are you busy then?”

“New Year’s is a family holiday,” Izaya informs Shizuo, speaking slowly as if maybe Shizuo doesn’t know this, dragging the words to teasing as his blood goes warm, as his fingers tighten involuntarily on the sides of his teacup. “You’re supposed to spend it at  _home_ , with your  _parents_.”

Shizuo doesn’t look away. He just holds Izaya’s gaze, keeps staring as Izaya’s smirk slips, as the image of last year’s cold house and sleeping sisters offers itself like a premonition for this one too.

“What about New Year’s?” Shizuo asks again, repeating the words with all the force of unstoppable energy.

Izaya takes a breath, manages to dredge up a smile to coat the edge of the surrender he can feel in his chest. “I couldn’t leave you to suffer alone, senpai.”

Shizuo nods, a short motion of satisfaction that admits no space for Izaya’s weak attempt at a taunt. “Good.” He takes another swallow of tea, tilting the cup back as he downs half of what is left at one go. “I’ll tell my mom. You should bring your sisters too.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Izaya informs Shizuo, easing the conversation back to steadier ground and away from the weird ache of emotion in his chest that comes with Shizuo’s steady stare. “What if they fall in love with Kasuka?” He twists the cup in his hands, smirks down at his hazy reflection. “I don’t want to be related to you, even if it’s only by marriage.”

“They’re  _four_ ,” Shizuo informs Izaya. “Don’t you think they’re a little young to be falling in love?”  
“They’re precocious,” Izaya says. “I wouldn’t put it past them.”

“Don’t be a pest,” Shizuo demands. “Are you coming over on New Year’s or not?”

Izaya shrugs, like it doesn’t matter, like his spine isn’t prickling with something halfway to embarrassment and halfway to happiness. “I said I was. Don’t you take me at my word, Shizuo-senpai?”

“I’m not that stupid,” Shizuo growls, angling his leg under the kotatsu to drive his knee in hard against Izaya’s shin. “I know better than to trust anything you say.”

“Do you really?” Izaya asks. “I’m impressed, I didn’t think you had the brain cells for that kind of logic.”

Shizuo’s hold tightens on his cup, his gaze cutting sideways to glare at Izaya from under the shadow of his hair. “Don’t you ever let up?”

“Never,” Izaya declares, taking a last sip of his tea before leaning back to lie on the floor and freeing his feet so he can kick idly against Shizuo’s ankles. “I wouldn’t be your favorite kouhai if I did.”

“You’re my only real kouhai,” Shizuo snaps. “It’s not like there’s much competition.”

Izaya doesn’t protest. Shizuo’s right, for one thing, and for another he’s not actually drawing his feet away, which means Izaya can keep attempting to draw a bruise from the other’s skin while Shizuo finishes his tea. It’s a good way to keep the other boy’s attention on him, and a better way to induce him to a reaction, which turns out to be grabbing at Izaya’s feet with one hand and pinning them down and out of range while Shizuo glares and Izaya laughs.

And, after all, he didn’t deny the claim.


	14. New

“Seriously,” Izaya says, tipping his weight in sideways to run up against the resistance of Shizuo’s shoulder. “You actually _like_ enka?”

“Shut up,” Shizuo tells him, giving Izaya a dark glare to make up for how softly he’s speaking in consideration of the other’s sisters asleep along one side of the kotatsu. They dropped out of consciousness shortly after dinner, in spite of their stated determination to stay up to see the New Year come in, and Izaya hasn’t bothered to wake them yet. Kasuka is barely better; he’s tilted in over the tabletop, his head resting heavy on his hand, and Izaya is fairly certain his eyes have been drifting closed over the span of the last few minutes of the show.

Izaya doesn’t blame him. The show is as boring as most recorded performances are; he’d rather see people live, unfiltered and unedited, as they truly are instead of cropped and cleaned for a polished appearance. The only reason he hasn’t followed the other three into a doze is the pleasure of teasing Shizuo next to him, the two of them pressed together to fit against one side of the kotatsu so they can both face the television at once.

“I was kidding about the karaoke club,” Izaya continues now, ignoring Shizuo’s growled command to the contrary as easily as he always does. “You actually would have really liked it, wouldn’t you?” His elbow swings out sideways, fits itself just under the bottom edge of Shizuo’s ribcage like it belongs there; Shizuo huffs at the impact, shoves Izaya’s arm away with enough force to knock the other boy over, and Izaya laughs even before he gets a hand on the floor to push himself back up. “You’re seriously uncool, Shizuo-senpai.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo says again. His cheeks are going darker, with embarrassment or rage, Izaya’s not sure which and doesn’t care; what matters is that he’s glaring at Izaya, that his attention is focused on the other boy instead of the movement and soft sound from the television. “I’m trying to watch the show.”

“The show’s boring,” Izaya tells him with as much condescending explanation as he can fit into his tone. “It’s almost over anyway.”

“Let me _finish_ it, then,” Shizuo growls. He narrows his eyes at Izaya, darkens his expression further into a shadow of pure frustration, and Izaya laughs again, the electric heat rising in his veins giving voice to itself at his lips even as Shizuo rolls his eyes and turns back to the television. Izaya grins, his lingering amusement lost against the defensive hunch of Shizuo’s shoulders, and lets himself tip forward over the tabletop, angling his arm over the surface for a makeshift pillow. The way he ends up lying is a strain on his neck, and his shoulders ache from the strange position of his arm, but mostly it’s a relief to put his head down, to let something else take the burden of his weight for a few minutes. Shizuo’s still not looking at him; he’s watching the television, his expression easing out of Izaya-induced frustration and into unconscious comfort, his frown undoing itself and his eyes going soft with attention. He has a scab against his chin from a fight after Christmas, has semi-permanent bruises laid dark over his knuckles, but with his expression so relaxed he looks his age, just a middle-schooler barely a few months older than Izaya himself. Something in Izaya’s chest knots, twists itself to heaviness so deep-set it’s almost pain; he grimaces, his frown as unseen as his other expressions, and turns his face down against his arm so he doesn’t see the way Shizuo’s face looks when he’s calm.

“Izaya-kun.” There’s a hand at Izaya’s shoulder, fingers tensing over his shirt with the same hesitant care one would show to a blown-glass vase. “Hey, Izaya, wake up.”

“I’m not asleep,” Izaya says to the table. When he lifts his head it’s in a slow slide, enough to drag his arm over his face and come up with a flush he can explain as caused by the friction. “What do you want?”

“Look,” Shizuo says, looking back to the television as quickly as Izaya looks at him. “It’s almost time.”

Izaya trails Shizuo’s gaze, follows the path of it to the display of numbers on the screen. The countdown drops to single digits as he blinks at it, the last of the old year told out in second-steady progression, and Izaya has a brief moment of panic, as if it’s his life being parcelled out by the drop of the numbers, as if the seconds are replacing the too-fast thud of his heart in his veins as a measurement for his existence.

Then _00:00_ the screen reads, and there’s a burst of sound from the television speakers, and Izaya takes a breath as Shizuo’s hand tightens against his shoulder.

“Happy New Year,” Shizuo says as Kasuka stirs at the sound, as Mairu whines and rolls over in her sleep. When Izaya looks up Shizuo’s looking at him, his expression as unusually soft as that hold still lingering against the other’s sleeve. His eyes look lighter than they usually do; Izaya can see the suggestion of gold behind the brown, the color lighting up Shizuo’s ordinary dark glower into something warmer and gentler for these first few seconds of the new year.

“Happy New Year,” Izaya recites back, obedient to the pull of the words on his tongue.

Shizuo considers him for a moment. Izaya can see Kasuka stirring in his periphery, can hear the sound of footsteps as Shizuo’s parents approach from the other room for the first round of new year’s greetings. But for a moment, for these few brief heartbeats, he has all of Shizuo’s attention.

Izaya is sure, then, that it’s going to be a good year.


	15. Assumed

“Thank god that’s over,” Izaya groans more loudly than he should as he falls into step with Shizuo on the way out of the gym. “Graduations are always so _tedious_.”

Shizuo frowns at him. “Don’t be rude,” he snaps, angling his elbow out to shove at Izaya’s arm. “It’s a big deal for the third-years.”

“I don’t care about any of them,” Izaya declares, considering the array of students spreading out over the school grounds and finding none of them more interesting than the one currently glaring at him. “Everyone is so stiff and formal about it. It’s not like it really matters anyway.”

“It matters to _them_.” Shizuo’s brows are drawn together, his mouth tense on a frown. “Don’t you have any sympathy in you at all?”

“Hm,” Izaya hums, making some show of considering the question. “I don’t think so.”

Shizuo rolls his eyes. “Of course you don’t,” he groans, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You won’t care until you’re the one walking across the stage, will you?”

“Maybe not even then,” Izaya says, looking out at the front gates, at the sprays of pink blossoms drifting through the wind like even the trees themselves are trying to coordinate a fairy-tale conclusion for the graduating third-years. “Maybe I just won’t show up.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Shizuo demands. Izaya can feel the other’s eyes on him instead of on the trees, his glare focused and as intent as if Izaya is a threat only kept in check by the other boy’s attention. “You can’t miss your own graduation.”

“Says who?” Izaya asks, taking a few fast steps forward along the path to gain some feet of distance between himself and Shizuo. When he pivots it’s on a heel, twisting to look back at Shizuo and offer a grin that tastes as reckless as it must look. Shizuo is still frowning at him; Izaya can see dark eyes catch at his, skip up to the cherry blossoms behind him, come back to linger at his expression.

“Don’t worry, Shizuo-senpai,” Izaya drawls as Shizuo steps in closer, crossing the gap between them while Izaya stands still for him. “I’ll definitely be at _your_ graduation.”

Shizuo’s mouth tightens, his eyes sliding down and away from Izaya’s. “Shut up,” he says, grabbing at Izaya’s arm to forcibly turn him around and propel him towards the front gate, but the movement isn’t fast enough to hide the color that is coming into his cheeks, the embarrassment that’s painting itself over the line of a bruised cheekbone. “That’s not what I’m worried about.”

“Isn’t it?” Izaya croons, stumbling in Shizuo’s wake and grinning wider as Shizuo’s face colors darker. “You don’t need to fret, senpai, your cute kouhai will be in the audience to cry appropriately at being abandoned.”

“You wouldn’t,” Shizuo informs Izaya, glancing back at him so quickly even Izaya can’t get a read on his expression before he’s looking forward and ducking his head to hide his face. “You won’t be _abandoned_ , anyway.”

“I’m hurt,” Izaya announces, still stalling his steps so Shizuo is forced to keep holding onto his arm and pulling him along by force. “You’re going to leave me all alone and you won’t even take responsibility for the trauma you’ll cause me?”

“It won’t be _trauma_ ,” Shizuo snaps, but he’s looking back, his hold on Izaya’s arm is easing out of the edge of pain it started with. “You’ll be fine without me.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Izaya tells him, letting his voice dip into tragedy for a moment. “If it’s easier for my senpai to forget about his pining kouhai, I understand. I only want what’s best for you, after all.”

“Oh my god,” Shizuo says, letting Izaya’s arm go so he can take an easy swing at him instead. “Shut _up_.” He’s still blushing crimson all over his cheeks, but he’s grinning now, too, the threat of laughter barely held to the movement of his arm instead of breaking into sound past his lips.

Izaya ducks out of the way of the blow, swinging himself in closer so he can bump his shoulder against Shizuo’s side and grin up at the other’s face. “Whatever you say,” he says, and Shizuo does laugh, then, his smile cracking into amusement as he gets a hold on Izaya’s far shoulder and pulls him away.

“Get off me,” he says, but there’s no sincerity to it, and when Izaya tips back in to stand too-close and press against Shizuo’s sleeve there’s no follow-up that would make the rejection stick.

“It’s all in the future anyway,” Izaya says, watching the path in front of them instead of turning to track the blossoms as they move past the cherry trees. “Who knows, maybe you’ll fail your classes and be held back with me another year.”

“I hope not,” Shizuo growls, and Izaya laughs until Shizuo reaches out to ruffle a hand into his hair and push him away with a rough gentleness that still leaves Izaya stumbling for balance. “You’re coming over for dinner tonight, right?”

“Maybe,” Izaya says, drawling the word slow and making some show of looking up as if the sky is more interesting than Shizuo next to him. “I _do_ have to make sure my sisters don’t blow themselves up this evening.”

Izaya can all but hear the eyeroll Shizuo gives to this excuse. “Bring them too,” he says, a command and not a question. “You know my mom loves having more girls in the house.”

“I can’t imagine why.” Izaya grins at the sky, still not meeting Shizuo’s gaze. “Not when her eldest son is _so_ well behaved and soft-spoken.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Shizuo tells him, the words meaningless around the calm in his tone.

Izaya laughs. “Of course I’ll come over for dinner,” he says, and he does look then, cutting his eyes sideways to catch Shizuo watching him with his expression gone remarkably soft without the usual tension of frustration. “I’m hardly going to abandon you, am I?”


	16. Companionable

“So what then,” Izaya says, lying down over Shizuo’s living room floor so he can reach the other boy’s hunched back with his toes. “You’re in love with her and that’s the end of everything?”

Shinra smiles, apparently utterly unfazed by the skepticism layered over Izaya’s tone. “Yep!”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Izaya informs him. When he kicks his foot out he jolts Shizuo’s position, gets himself a growl and a glare that lets Kasuka’s avatar on the screen get the upper hand. “You’re willing to give up on the possibilities of everyone else in the world because of just one person?”

“Of course,” Shinra says with the easy calm of a man entirely certain in himself. “That’s what it means to be in love with someone.”

“You don’t even know if you’re really in love,” Izaya points out, reaching past Shinra’s elbow for one of the boxes of pocky the other boy brought with him. “You can’t be completely sure she’s the right one for you unless you’ve met everyone else in the world and verified it.” He grins, snaps off an inch of pocky against his teeth. “Scientifically.”

“That’s not how love works.” Shinra speaks as if he knows, as if he’s an expert on love from the mature vantage of his third year in middle school; it’s absurd, Izaya knows, but there’s something charming about the light in his eyes and the almost-condescending smile at his lips, like he’s been awakened to something Izaya doesn’t even know to look for. “You just know when you see it. It doesn’t matter if Celty’s the right one for me or not; I’m never going to love anyone but her and I’m never going to stop trying to be with her.”

“How long have you been in love?” Izaya asks, the amusement of mockery only barely audible in his throat.

“Since I was four,” Shinra answers immediately. “Almost as long as I can remember.”

“Childhood friends,” Izaya drawls, snapping off most of what remains of the pocky in one bite. “How romantic.”

“Don’t be a jerk,” Shizuo’s voice orders, and there’s a hand closing on Izaya’s idly kicking foot, stalling its motion entirely as the other boy turns away from the video game over the sound of the electronic victory music denoting his loss to his brother. “Just because you’re bad at making friends doesn’t mean everyone is.”

“I have friends,” Izaya insists without moving to make room for Shizuo. He gets a push for his trouble, a shove against his hip that slides him inches over the floor without any visible effort on Shizuo’s part, and Shizuo sits down next to him to reach for the snacks while Kasuka looks over his shoulder in search of his next victim. “I have a senpai to take care of that for me.”

“Good thing too,” Shizuo growls at him. “You’d have fucked it all up on your own.”

“Says the monster who keeps the entire school in constant terror of him,” Izaya says. He’s laughing before Shizuo growls, grinning as a hand closes at a handful of his hair to push him down against the floor.

“Shut up,” Shizuo snaps. “They’re not _afraid_ of me.”

“Shizuo’s not a monster,” Shinra puts in from the other side of the half-empty boxes of pocky and the array of crinkled foil candy wrappers. “He just uses all of his strength. Any human could, if it were possible to override the limitations we unconsciously impose on ourselves.”

“Bullshit,” Izaya says, pushing at Shizuo’s hand in a completely futile attempt to wiggle free of the other’s hold. “I could never pick up a refrigerator, I’d crush myself.”

“Oh, of course!” Shinra laughs, with the kind of bright amusement that would be simply pleasant were it not coming at the thought of broken bones and crushed spines. “Shizuo did too, the first few years. I think he spent longer in the hospital than he did in class, when we were in elementary school. Don’t you think, Kasuka?”

“Yeah,” Kasuka says without turning around, sounding as interested in this conversation as he is in anything, which is not at all. “He did have a lot of broken bones.”

“Shizuo cracked his shoulderblade once,” Shinra goes on, with every indication of pleasure in repeating the story. “And completely shattered his pelvis that time he managed to get a car over his head.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo growls, the tone a threat even though he hasn’t moved from where he’s holding Izaya against the floor one-handed. “It’s not important.”

“He tore out a storage cabinet in the classroom once,” Shinra continues with no trace of hesitation at Shizuo’s warning tone. “It was fine until he tried to hold it in one hand and his ulna snapped.” His eyebrows raise, his hand comes up to adjust his glasses as he shakes his head. “The bone came right past his skin, there was blood _everywhere_.”

“Oh yeah,” Kasuka says, still without looking away from the television screen. He’s opened up single-player mode on the game, is maneuvering the sprite around the scrolling terrain with no visible effort on his part. “They had to close off the entire classroom until they could get everything cleaned up. He was in the hospital for two weeks before they released him.”

“ _Stop_ ,” Shizuo demands, and this time he reaches out to drag the box of pocky from Shinra’s hold and derail his speech into a whine of protest. “You’re being morbid, Shinra, stop encouraging him.”

“Me?” Izaya asks from the floor. “Don’t worry, senpai, I’ve already thought about this.”

“Not helpful,” Shizuo tells him, finally lifting his hand so he can fish out a stick of pocky from the box. Izaya pushes up onto his elbows and shakes his hair out of his face. “You don’t need any new ideas.”

“Don’t be stingy,” Izaya says, but he lets the subject drop anyway, discards it as Shinra’s attention wanders back to the game. “Give me some pocky.”

“You have your own box,” Shizuo grumbles, but he tips the box sideways anyway, offering submission to Izaya’s demand in the angle of his hand in spite of the irritation under his words.

“Yeah,” Izaya allows, reaching up to slide a stick of pocky out of the box so he can toy with it between his fingers. “I just wanted to see if you’d give me some of yours.”

“You don’t even want it.” Shizuo reaches out to take the stick from Izaya’s fingers, and Izaya twists his hand back, lets the pocky snap at the middle under the pressure of his movement against the strength of Shizuo’s hold.

“I do,” Izaya says, bringing the broken end of the chocolate to his mouth. “I want you to give it to me.”

“Brat,” Shizuo tells him, but he doesn’t look truly frustrated, and he eats his end of the stick without any other protest.

The pocky really does taste better when Izaya knows it’s not his.


	17. Credit

“I’m serious,” Izaya purrs in his very best not-serious voice. “You can’t just go out into the world without _some_ way to warn people.”

“I’m not going to _warn_ anyone,” Shizuo growls. “Get down before you fall.”

Izaya takes a step closer to the edge of the low wall he’s standing on, close enough that he can edge the toes of his shoes out over the lip. He grins when Shizuo looks up to glare at him. “You _have_ to,” he informs the other, tipping himself forward so he can reach out for the windswept tangle of Shizuo’s dark hair. “It’s a public service, Shizuo-senpai, you have to look at least as dangerous as you are. Otherwise strangers will think you’re just an ordinary middle schooler.”

“I’m not bleaching my hair,” Shizuo snaps, reaching up to smack Izaya’s wrist away with enough force that it would knock Izaya’s balance off-center if he weren’t ready for it. “School rules don’t allow it.”

Izaya laughs. The sound is bright and loud even in the clear air of the park; a few people look up, the attention of strangers coming to rest on him, but he doesn’t look away from the scowl turning Shizuo’s face into a thundercloud. “Like you care about school rules,” he teases. “No one could make you obey them if you didn’t want to.”

“I could get expelled.” Shizuo looks away from Izaya’s face, down the angle of his legs to his precarious balance at the edge of the wall. “Seriously, get _down_.”

“It wasn’t so bad when you were bruised all the time,” Izaya tells him without making any attempt to move. “You hardly get into fights at all now, though. When was the last time you broke a bone?”

“I don’t know,” Shizuo sighs. “Last year?”

“Exactly.” Izaya shifts his weight to the side, steadies his foot against the edge of the wall. “You look _normal_ , senpai, everyone will think you’re an ordinary human like this.” He braces his foot, lifts his arms, and then lifts his other shoe just clear of the wall so he’s balanced on one heel. Shizuo yelps, twisting to grab at Izaya’s ankle with crushing force, and Izaya wobbles precariously for a moment before he catches himself.

“Get _down_ ,” Shizuo snaps without loosing the press of his fingers at Izaya’s ankle. When he looks up he’s glaring, his brows drawn down into fury that matches his frown but not the shudder of concern behind his eyes and draining all the color out of his face. “I’m not going to catch you if you fall.”

“You startled me,” Izaya drawls, still without putting his other foot down. He can feel the dig of Shizuo’s fingers against the knob of bone at his ankle, can feel the print of shadowed bruises forming under the pressure. “If I did fall it would have been your fault.”

“Fuck you,” Shizuo snaps, and reaches up with his free hand to grab at Izaya’s hip. Izaya’s balance teeters and gives way to the support of Shizuo’s hold. “Come _down_.”

“Make me,” Izaya suggests.

Shizuo’s frown quivers, the very corner of his mouth twitching like he’s thinking about giving over anger for amusement. “Fine,” he says, and drags Izaya forward by his hip, letting his hold on the other’s ankle go to reach for his waist instead. Izaya grabs at Shizuo’s hands in a reflexive attempt to brace himself but it’s not needed; Shizuo’s pulling him forward and off the edge as easily as if he weighs nothing at all, as if he’s the size of a cat instead of an (admittedly skinny) middle schooler. Izaya’s feet leave the edge, his balance tipping dangerously backwards, and he rocks forward in an attempt to save himself, reaching out to grab for support at Shizuo’s shoulder. His palm hits fabric, his fingers brush hair, and Izaya catches his balance just as Shizuo gets an arm up and around his waist to hold him in place.

“Put me down,” Izaya protests, though the force of the words is almost completely undermined by the way they come out as the start of a laugh. He swings his foot, kicks as hard against Shizuo’s ribs as he can, but Shizuo doesn’t even flinch at the impact. “Senpai, put me _down_.”

“No,” Shizuo growls, but he’s grinning too, Izaya can see the sharp white edge of the expression when Shizuo glances up at him. Izaya reaches for his face in an attempt to scratch surrender into his skin but Shizuo just ducks sideways so all Izaya gets is a handful of dark hair. “You were going to fall.”

“I wasn’t,” Izaya insists around the impulse of the smile at his mouth. Shizuo’s arm is rock-steady around him; he’s very sure he won’t break free unless Shizuo lets him go, but he still tries another kick at Shizuo’s waist and another shove against his head. If they’re weaker than sincerity would make them, he’s sure Shizuo won’t notice the difference. “You _made_ me fall.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo tells him. “Or I’ll carry you back home.”

“Monster,” Izaya teases, and they’re both smiling now in spite of Izaya’s best efforts to hold his expression back. “You--”

“ _Orihara_.”

The voice is unfamiliar, a loud rumble of fury emanating from the other side of the park. Izaya turns as much as he is able to with Shizuo’s arm still pinning him in place against the other’s shoulder, twisting to look towards the source of the shout behind him. There’s a man standing several feet away, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses needless under the overcast sky; Izaya’s never seen him before, but his height and the dark of his hair match his identity with the stories he’s heard, pairs him with gossip Izaya’s collected from smoky rooms and over hands of poker.

“Izumii-san,” Izaya drawls, pulling up a smirk that he knows doesn’t touch his eyes. Shizuo loosens his hold on his waist, lets him slide down to the ground; Izaya lands lightly, balancing on his toes and pivoting away from Shizuo as smoothly as if he had intended to do so all along. “How charming to finally make your acquaintance. I’d been hoping we’d get the chance someday soon.”

Izumii’s grin spreads shark-wide across his face, baring all his teeth at once like he’s attempting to show them off. Izaya can imagine the threat behind those sunglasses without needing to see it.

“You’re just a kid after all, aren’t you?” he says, dragging the words into the sing-songy tone Izaya recognizes as a threat. He takes a long step forward towards where Izaya and Shizuo are standing. “Orihara Izaya. You’ve got all the gangs in the city talking about you.”

Izaya doesn’t have to feign the amusement in his smile this time. “That’s wonderful. I _love_ being the center of attention.”

“Cute,” Izumii drawls. He’s still coming forward; Izaya can see the gap in their height, now, the inches of advantage Izumii has on him and the extra breadth in his shoulders. Izaya doesn’t step back, doesn’t let his smile flicker even when Izumii steps in close enough to cast the other in his shadow. “That why you been fucking around with my boys?”

“Oh no,” Izaya smiles, blinking innocence up into the threat of Izumii’s teeth. “I’ve been fucking around with _yakuza_. Your little gang is just a side effect.”

Izumii’s laugh is rough, a bark of sound that Izaya can feel gust hot over his face. He doesn’t cringe from it, but it’s a close thing. “‘Little,’” he repeats. “Damn, kid, you’ve got some backbone. You remind me of my kid brother.”

Izaya’s grin tears itself to lopsided imbalance on his face. “Aww, how sweet.”

“Yeah,” Izumii says, looking Izaya over like he’s sizing him up, as if Izaya would ever be so stupid as to clearly telegraph everything about himself the way Izumii has. “I fucking _hate_ my brother.”

“I feel bad for him,” Izaya sighs, layering his voice with as much syrupy condescension as he can manage. “Having to deal with an idiot like you on a daily basis must be _terrible_.”

“It’d be real nice to break your face,” Izumii informs Izaya. “I could pretend it’s his face I’m smashing into the pavement.”

“You’re welcome to try,” Izaya says, testing the balance of his feet, feeling adrenaline surging in his veins in anticipation of a swinging fist, feeling his shoulders tensing in expectation of a dodge. He twists his smile wider, lets it sparkle a dare into the stare he still has locked on Izumii’s dark glasses. “If you don’t think your brotherly love will get in the way.”

“Fuck you,” Izumii tells him, and lifts his hand as he closes his fingers into a fist. Izaya can see the swing coming, can watch the slow threat of Izumii’s hand knotting into the anticipation of an impact, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t let his smile fade; he just stays where he is, his entire body tense with readiness to dodge as soon as Izumii’s fist starts to swing.

“ _Hey_ ,” comes a voice, and Izaya blinks, starts to turn involuntarily even as the faster part of his consciousness flinches from the impact that will result from looking away at the precise moment Izumii moves. Shizuo is scowling, glaring fury that isn’t directed at Izaya, for once, and when Izumii moves Shizuo steps forward and into it, catching the other’s arm in his fingers without any visible sign of effort. His eyes are dark, his shoulders hunched forward, and Izumii might have inches of height advantage but Shizuo looks taller, somehow, like the line of his shoulders is gaining strength from how easily he stopped Izumii’s movement. His face is clear the marks of blood or bruises, his hands stripped to skin instead of showing the wrappings of broken bones or sprained wrists, but Izaya’s entire body goes suddenly hot with adrenaline at the absolute _danger_ radiating off the other boy, the threat so tangible Izumii goes stumbling back before he can catch his instinctive response.

“Who the _fuck_ are you?” he blurts as he draws his hand back. Izaya can see him flexing his fingers out of the pain that comes from slamming even a half-speed punch into a unstoppable wall. “Orihara and I were talking.”

“I’m Heiwajima Shizuo,” Shizuo growls. “Who are _you_?”

Izumii blinks, his eyes flickering wider as realization hits. Izaya is unimpressed with his control over his expression, but there’s something secondhand satisfying in watching the first involuntary flicker of horror at Shizuo’s name. “ _Heiwajima_ ,” Izumii repeats. “You’re the one who--” and his eyes cut sideways, land at Izaya again before narrowing into suspicion.

“It was you,” he says, his words hardening to certainty before Izaya can even parse what he’s talking about. “You’re the ones who attacked my boys back last year.”

“ _Attacked_?” Shizuo repeats, fury lacing his voice, but Izumii’s not looking at Shizuo; he’s staring at Izaya, his mouth dipping further into a frown.

“You again,” he says, and that’s for Izaya all alone; Shizuo might as well not even be there for all the attention Izumii is giving him. “You sicced your goddamn guard dog on them.”

“ _Hey_ ,” Shizuo snaps, and he takes a step forward, closing the gap Izumii’s first stumbling retreat left between them. “I didn’t _attack_ them, they--”

“That’s right,” Izaya says, fast and loud to cut off Shizuo’s half-formed denial. Shizuo turns to look at him, startled to a moment of quiet by Izaya’s words, but Izaya doesn’t meet his eyes; he keeps watching Izumii, retrieving the edge of his smile as he slides his hands into his pockets and slouches into the most indolent attitude he can adopt. “Your boys tried to fuck with me and found it was harder than they thought it would be.” Shizuo’s frowning at him, his expression falling to shadow in Izaya’s periphery, but Izaya doesn’t look at him; he’s too busy meeting Izumii’s stare instead, too busy holding his own against the tension of the moment. “Did you think I was just some kid unable to defend myself?” Izumii is staring at him, his frown giving way to uncertain softness; Izaya rocks back on his heels, steadies himself for movement. “You really are an idiot.” He steps forward, just a few inches, easily crossed by a single motion; and Izumii falls back, stumbling away with as much alacrity as if Izaya were holding a knife to his throat.

“We’ll get you back,” Izumii says, but the words fall flat and empty on the retreat of his movement, on the giveaway for panic in the backwards angle of his shoulders. “Orihara Izaya. Heiwajima Shizuo. Blue Square will remember you, you’d better be ready.”

“We’re ready now,” Izaya taunts, spreading his arms into an open invitation. “Do you need to get your buddies with you to feel strong enough to take on two middle schoolers?”

“Fuck you,” Izumii spits, and steps back again, hunching his shoulders in a futile attempt to disguise the absolute surrender in his retreat. “You’re just kids.”

“And you’re running,” Izaya calls, but Izumii is turning away and pretending he doesn’t hear, ignoring the handful of bystanders that serve as audience to the stalled-out confrontation, that will serve as the mouthpieces for the rumors Izaya can already imagine spreading over the city, that will grant him a mysterious power and turn Shizuo into the monster Izaya has been trying to make of him.

A hand lands on Izaya’s shoulder. “What the _fuck_ was that,” Shizuo demands, dragging at the other’s shirt so hard Izaya loses his footing and stumbles into the turn Shizuo’s motion demands. Shizuo’s eyes are wide, concern so strong in his gaze that it undoes even the appearance of anger along the set of his jaw. His hand is a fist on Izaya’s shirt, pulling the collar taut against the other’s throat. “Did you just pick a fight with an _entire gang_?”

“You really don’t understand manipulation,” Izaya informs Shizuo, catching his balance without making the futile attempt to twist free of the other’s hold. “I just _ended_ a fight. It may be difficult for you to tell the difference, but possibly you’ve noticed that I’m neither bleeding nor bruised and he’s _gone_.”

“He could be back,” Shizuo growls.

“He won’t,” Izaya says, certain of this as he is always certain of humanity, like he can see the path of Izumii’s actions spread out before him like a map into the future. “He thinks he’ll have to go through you to get to me and you already took out a half dozen of his gang by yourself.”

“You weren’t even _there_ ,” Shizuo reminds him. “That had _nothing_ to do with you, why the hell would you pretend it did?”

“Because,” Izaya says, slow, like he’s explaining something to a very small child. He reaches up for Shizuo’s wrist, braces his fingers against the heat of the other’s skin and presses his thumb into the hard thud of Shizuo’s pulse. “This way I get credit for the result.” He pushes as hard as he can against Shizuo’s wrist; Shizuo’s frown deepens, but after a moment he eases his hold on Izaya’s shirt and lets his hand be drawn away. “And now Blue Square thinks I have a bodyguard.”

“You _don’t_ ,” Shizuo reminds him. “What would you have done if I wasn’t here?”

Izaya shrugs. “Does it matter?” He lets his hold on Shizuo’s wrist go, slides his fingers away to press back into his pocket. His skin tingles with the friction, heat purring into his veins. “You were.”

“I might not be next time,” Shizuo tells him.

“Well then.” Izaya tips his head to the side, offers Shizuo the sharpest smile he can muster. “You’ll just have to look after me all the time, won’t you, senpai?”

Shizuo rolls his eyes. “You are such a pest,” he informs Izaya. “This is going to catch up to you someday and you’re going to deserve whatever happens to you.”

“Someday,” Izaya agrees. “Not today.” Shizuo sighs, and Izaya laughs, and when he climbs back up to sit instead of stand at the edge of the wall, Shizuo doesn’t try to stop him.


	18. Radiant

Lunch seems to last longer now than it used to. Izaya can’t explain this; he spends half his lunchtime now actually eating, there’s no reasonable way he should feel like he has _more_ free time now than he did before. But that’s how it seems, even if he knows it’s not true, and he doesn’t mind anyway. It’s more entertaining to know he has someone to tease, worth the time spent eating for the glares he can get for stealing bites of Shizuo’s food, and it gives a structure to his day, offers a point of routine to rely on even when his mornings and evenings remain as uncertain as they have ever been, unformed plans constantly shifting since he rarely knows where his parents have gone or when they’ll return.

“Are you going to be alone on Christmas again?” Shizuo asks from Izaya’s elbow. He’s pushing hard against the resistance of the other’s shoulder in an attempt to keep him out of range of the last few bites of the lunch on Shizuo’s far side; Izaya is letting him succeed, for now, primarily because it’s always more fun to do something when Shizuo thinks he can’t manage it.

“I don’t know,” Izaya drawls, looking out to the clear cold of the sky as if there’s anything to see overhead except for the crystalline white of the clouds drifting across the blue. Shizuo’s staring at him, he can feel the heat of the other’s gaze pressing against his face, but he doesn’t turn; it’s enough just to know Shizuo’s watching without needing to give himself away enough to confirm it. “I could have a harem of girlfriends by then, Shizuo-senpai, it’s hard to say.”

“Don’t be a brat,” Shizuo tells him, reaching up to shove roughly at Izaya’s head. Izaya lets the force push him sideways, feels his mouth dragging into an irrepressible grin; when he glances over Shizuo’s giving him an unimpressed look that says he completely disregarded the possibility that Izaya was telling the truth. “Shinra’s talking about having a party. You should come too.”

“Maybe I have better things to do,” Izaya suggests. “It’s always easier to win money when the other players are tipsy on celebratory sake.”

“Shit,” Shizuo says, and lets the pressure on Izaya’s shoulder abruptly dissipate. Izaya catches himself against the rooftop, pushes himself back to upright as Shizuo looks away to frown at his hands; he looks like he’s turning something over in his mind, or maybe like he’s bracing himself to say something unpleasant. “You shouldn’t fuck around with the color gangs, you know.”

“They aren’t the color gangs,” Izaya says, although this is a lie in part if not in whole; the games might be run by the yakuza, but he knows enough of the faces around town to know when members of Blue Square appear, even if they’ve gone out of their way to strip off the obvious marker for the gang. “It’s just a friendly game of betting.”

“You’re going to get yourself hurt,” Shizuo goes on, still staring at his hands and ignoring Izaya’s words as thoroughly as he is ignoring the frown Izaya is giving to the fall of his hair. “You never take it seriously but you’re playing with _adults_ , people with _weapons_. They could really hurt you and no one would be able to even do anything about it afterwards.”

“I’m not going to get hurt,” Izaya says. He intends the words to snap, to bite as they fall from his lips, but they twist in the back of his throat and convert themselves into something softer than he meant, so much quieter that the laugh he laces them with sounds more nervous than certain. “Is this what you do with your free time, worry what trouble I’m getting into?”

“Of _course_ I worry,” Shizuo snaps, and he looks up then, frowning so hard at Izaya that the tension at his mouth almost succeeds at distracting from the soft shadows in his eyes. “Every time we’re downtown I’m worried Blue Square’s going to decide to get revenge for some stupid thing you did to them.” He looks down again, frowns harder, sets his fingers against the rooftop and picks hard at the texture underneath them as if he’s trying to pry it free of its moorings. “At least I’m there, though. What if you had been on your own when that guy came after you?”

“Izumii,” Izaya corrects without thinking, his memory offering the specificity of a name for Shizuo’s vague reference.

The clarification gets him a cut of dark eyes, the shadows in them hardening to anger for a moment. “Like _that_ ,” Shizuo snaps. “You shouldn’t even _know_ that, you’re a _middle schooler_. How do you know the name of the head of Blue Square?”

“I pay attention,” Izaya says, dragging the words into an unstated insult, but if Shizuo picks up on the edge to the statement his expression doesn’t show it, his frown doesn’t waver. “That’s _why_ I’ll be fine. I’m not stupid, senpai, I can make myself valuable enough to stay safe.”

“ _No_ ,” Shizuo growls, and he’s reaching out over Izaya’s shoulders, shoving his hand through the other’s hair so hard Izaya has to give way to the force of it, has to tip nearly sideways again under the unthinking push of Shizuo’s arm. “You should just _stay safe_ , leave this kind of thing to adults.” The hand slides, fingers curling in around Izaya’s head instead of pushing at him, and when Shizuo pulls Izaya is drawn sideways faster than he can think to protest and with enough force that he suspects any attempt would be futile anyway. His shoulders tip, his balance goes, and then he’s pressed hard against Shizuo’s side, his head drawn in against the weight of the other boy’s jacket and his shoulders digging into Shizuo’s ribcage.

“You’re my best friend,” Shizuo says, growling the words into a rough edge that nearly obscures the embarrassed heat under them, the color of a blush given the texture of voice. “Don’t do something stupid and get yourself hurt.”

Shizuo is very warm. Izaya can feel the heat of his body right through the barrier of his shirt and school uniform jacket, the radiance enough to overwhelm the oncoming bite of winter in the air to ghost warm against Izaya’s skin. When Izaya takes a breath he can feel the heat slide down his throat, uncurling into his lungs to warm him from the inside out.

“There’s a solution,” he says, the words muffling themselves out of either edge or softness against the resistance of Shizuo’s jacket. “It’s simple, senpai.”

“What is it?” Shizuo asks, suspicion so heavy on the words that Izaya doesn’t need to see his face to imagine the sideways glare he’s giving him.

“You give me a Christmas present,” Izaya suggests, turning his head up so he can see the way Shizuo’s expression falls slack in confusion. “I’m sure I’d be _much_ safer with a weapon.”

“What the _fuck_ ,” Shizuo growls, shoving at Izaya’s shoulder to knock him away as Izaya starts to giggle helplessly. “I’m not getting you a _weapon_ , what the _hell_ is wrong with you?”

“I could protect myself,” Izaya insists, toppling back in against Shizuo’s shoulder before the other can push him away again. “A switchblade would be enough to make anyone think twice before attacking me.”

“No fucking way.” Shizuo grabs at Izaya’s sleeve, pulls in a futile attempt to dislodge him; Izaya just laughs and catches his arm around Shizuo’s waist to keep himself pressed against the warm of the other’s body. “No one would give an _illegal weapon_ as a _Christmas_ present.”

“It would be so romantic,” Izaya attempts, but he can’t restrain his laughter, amusement is overriding self-control until he can’t sustain his grip on Shizuo’s waist, until the other boy pushing at him knocks him over to giggle helplessly against the support of the rooftop.

“Fuck,” Shizuo sighs, sounding more resigned than angry as Izaya catches his breath and struggles to pull himself back together from the edge of hysteria. “You’re completely insane, you know that?”

“And you’re a monster,” Izaya tells him, reining in his laughter enough to reestablish coherency if nothing else. “We make a perfect pair, don’t we?”

“Shut up,” Shizuo tells him, and pushes at his shoulder to knock Izaya back down when he tries to sit up.

Izaya doesn’t mind. He can still feel the heat of Shizuo’s touch lingering against his shoulders, and the bruise of the memory is enough to keep him smiling.


	19. Gift

“Celty’s going to be so pleased when she hears I spent Christmas with you two,” Shinra says, sounding blissful and lost somewhere in the haze of his own daydream. “She always wants me to make friends with more people.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Izaya drawls. He has a mandarin in his hands, is picking at the peel more out of boredom than hunger; Shizuo’s on the other side of the kotatsu, his chin balanced on his hand while he looks sideways at Shinra lying across the floor. “When you have so many close friends already.”

“I know,” Shinra sighs, oblivious to the sarcasm in Izaya’s tone or just choosing to ignore it completely. “But she asks and so I must obey!” He sits up from the floor to look at Izaya, tilts his head to the side consideringly. “Isn’t that jacket too big for you?”

“Is it?” Izaya asks, looking away from Shinra to cut a smirk across the kotatsu at Shizuo. Shizuo’s already scowling at Izaya’s hands, fixing his glare to the other’s fingers rather than meeting his eyes. “Thank you for pointing that out, I hadn’t noticed.”

“It’s just because you’re too skinny,” Shizuo informs him. His toes run up against Izaya’s shin, press hard against the resistance of the other’s leg. “It fit me okay.”

“You’re twice my size,” Izaya declares. It’s not true -- regardless of the unit of measurement, Shizuo is at most a quarter again as big as Izaya -- but the claim makes Shizuo look up from under the shadow of his hair to glare at the other and gives Izaya an audience for the grin he levels over the kotatsu. “And it’s big even on you.”

“I’ll take it back,” Shizuo growls, not for the first time. “If all you’re going to do is complain about it--”

“No,” Izaya says, lifting his hands so he can shake the weight of the sleeves down off his wrists. The motion feels theatrical, cinematic, like he’s moving for the appreciation of thousands instead of just the one glaring at him from across the table. “Of course I love my first gift from my senpai.”

“You’ll grow into it,” Shinra puts in from the lean he’s adopted over the floor. He’s considering the dark fall of the coat over Izaya’s shoulders, eyeing the white lining around the hood and at the cuffs of the sleeves. “You’ll probably have another growth spurt before the end of high school, after all.”

“Oh good,” Izaya says, glancing back at Shizuo. “Maybe I’ll be able to catch up to Shizuo-senpai.”

“Only if you eat enough,” Shizuo informs him. “Are you going to eat that or just play with it?”

“Why?” Izaya asks, rolling the mandarin off his fingertips to drop into the cup of his other hand. “Isn’t one of your own good enough?”

“I don’t want it,” Shizuo growls, in a tone that entirely belies the claim of the words. “But watching you pick at that one is driving me crazy.”

“You’re really high-strung, Shizuo-senpai,” Izaya tells him, tossing the mandarin into a high arc in the air and watching the way Shizuo’s gaze shifts to track the motion. “Maybe you wouldn’t have such a problem with your temper if you were a little calmer.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo tells him. He’s still watching the mandarin, his shoulders setting into determination as Izaya sustains the even tosses from one hand to  the other. Izaya doesn’t look at his hands; it’s easier to just watch Shizuo’s face, to track the movement in the shift of the other’s attention rather than watching it himself. The mandarin makes a string of arcs in a row, the pattern of its motion deliberately smooth and lulling; then Shizuo’s shoulders tense, anticipation making itself clear in the way he hunches forward, and Izaya shifts the toss without blinking, snatching the fruit out of the air as Shizuo lunges forward to grab at where he thinks it should be. Izaya’s laughing before Shizuo growls, amusement bubbling irrepressibly up his throat, and Shizuo’s glare catches on his face as he reaches out to close his fingers on Izaya’s arm through the weight of the new jacket.

“Brat,” he tells him, twisting Izaya’s wrist up and out; Izaya keeps his hold on the mandarin without looking, smirking a taunt at Shizuo until he presses his hold hard into the tendons of Izaya’s wrist and forces the other’s grip open. Shizuo catches the mandarin as it falls, his fingers tightening so hard the fruit is in some danger of giving way entirely to his hold, but he doesn’t let go of Izaya’s wrist either, doesn’t ease out of the pressure he’s digging into the other’s skin. “Do you ever stop being a pest?”

“Never,” Izaya declares. “Are you going to peel that or just crush it?”

“Shut up,” Shizuo says, but he drops Izaya’s wrist and eases off his hold on the mandarin as he looks down at his hand. Izaya grins at the top of Shizuo’s head, bright while Shizuo can’t see him, and shakes his sleeves until the too-long catch of the jacket falls over his hands.

“You’re really good friends,” Shinra observes. Izaya looks over, startled by the reminder of the other’s presence; he’s lying across the floor with his chin propped on one hand, blinking at Izaya from behind the barrier of his glasses. Izaya’s skin prickles, discomfort rippling down his spine at the reminder that they have an audience, and when he looks away it’s down to the tabletop, frowning at the texture of the surface without giving an answer. Shinra doesn’t appear to be at all fazed by this; he goes on speaking as if Izaya has responded or otherwise encouraged him to continue talking. “Do you think that’s what Celty wants me to have, a friend like you are to each other?”

“We’re friends with you,” Shizuo says. Izaya looks up across the kotatsu to see the curtain of Shizuo’s hair falling in front of his face; his head is bowed over the mandarin in his hands, his mouth caught into a frown of concentration as he works blunt fingernails under the peel. “It’s not like we only care about each other.”

“Sure,” Shinra says without any trace of jealousy in his tone. “It’s just like how I care about Celty more than anything.”

“You’re in _love_ with Celty,” Shizuo reminds him. “It’s not the same.”

“Obviously not,” Izaya says before Shinra has a chance to respond. “Sorry to ruin your dreams, Shizuo-senpai, I could never love a monster like you.”

“ _What_?” Shizuo looks up, his forehead creased on confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“Love,” Izaya drawls, grinning into the rush of adrenaline that hits him with Shizuo’s frown. With the jacket weighting over his shoulders, the heat flickering through his veins clings to his skin like a haze. “Nothing that affects you.”

“Don’t be a brat,” Shizuo tells him, tossing the peeled mandarin across the kotatsu towards Izaya’s head. Izaya ducks sideways as he lifts his hand; the weight of the projectile smacks against his palm to catch in the curl of his fingers. “Eat your stupid mandarin.”

“I didn’t want it in the first place,” Izaya says, but he pulls the wedges apart anyway, splits the slices under the weight of his thumb. The first bite he takes is sour-sweet, bursting over his tongue in a spill of juice that makes his mouth water at the tang of it.

“I’m glad,” Shinra declares. When Izaya glances at him he’s sitting up over his folded knees, beaming at the both of them like they’re some fascinating experiment. “Celty was right, it’s good to have friends.” He reaches out, pulls a slice of Izaya’s mandarin out of his hands before Izaya can protest either this thievery or the implication of his words. “It’d be terribly lonely to be all alone, don’t you think?”

“I’d be fine,” Izaya declares. “I can take care of myself with friends or otherwise.”

The kick Shizuo lands at his leg hits hard, digs in with enough impact to ache all the way up to Izaya’s knee. “Liar,” Shizuo says, glaring at Izaya from under the shadows of his hair. “You can barely feed yourself, you’d freeze to death without that jacket that _I_ gave you.”

“There’s no need to get huffy,” Izaya tells Shizuo. He eats another slice of mandarin, grins around the taste of it. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate you taking care of me. Things would be a lot harder without my doting senpai.”

That gets him an eyeroll from Shizuo and a laugh from Shinra, the high delighted one like he’s amused by a show he’s watching instead of actually interacting with other humans. Izaya just grins, keeps grinning as he takes another bite; the mandarin is sweet on his tongue, the jacket warm over his shoulders, and the idea suggested by Shinra’s words melts away to be forgotten as easily as it was offered.


	20. Cold

“It’s freezing,” Izaya observes from his perch at the edge of the waist-high fence along the school roof. “Isn’t it supposed to be spring or something?”

“Spring doesn’t mean warm,” Shizuo tells him. He shifts the hold he has on the back of Izaya’s uniform jacket. “Are you ready to get down from there yet?”

“No,” Izaya says without looking sideways. Shizuo’s leaning on the fence next to him, relaxed except for the grip he has on Izaya’s uniform; it might even be enough to save him from a fall, Izaya considers, if he were in any danger of falling. But for once the courtyard below is more interesting than the suggestion of a bruise fading along Shizuo’s cheek, and Izaya doesn’t look away from the haze of pink buds threatening to form along the dark branches of the cherry trees below.

Shizuo sighs resignation. Izaya can feel his fingers tighten on the fabric as he steadies himself. “Tell me you won’t climb up here on your own.”

Izaya laughs. The air is bitingly cold in his lungs, gives him an excuse for the ache in his chest that has nothing to do with the cherry blossoms and the time of year they indicate. “Don’t you know better than to believe me by now, Shizuo-senpai?”

“I know you will,” Shizuo says, as level as if Izaya’s attempt to strike sparks never happened at all. “I just want you to tell me you won’t.”

Izaya cuts his gaze sideways without the giveaway of turning his head. Shizuo’s not looking at him; he’s staring down at the courtyard too, his jaw set on tension that would look like anger in another setting and looks more like unhappiness in this one.

Izaya looks away, lifts his chin to raise his gaze to the sky overhead, the blue so clear and so cold it looks almost white. “I promise I won’t climb up the rooftop fence while you’re at Raijin,” he says, swinging the words so far into melodrama they sound like a vow to do exactly the opposite. “If I fall off the roof it’ll be Nakura’s fault and not yours.”

“Shit,” Shizuo hisses. He drags at the back of Izaya’s jacket, a movement Izaya is almost sure is unconscious. “I’ll fucking kill him if he tries something.”

There’s laughter in Izaya’s throat, the threat of hysteria building on the back of his tongue; he closes his mouth on it instead of letting it free, stares hard at the sky instead of looking down to see if Shizuo is looking at him or not. “He’s not worth it,” he finally decrees, when he can trust his throat to work the way he wants it to, can trust his voice to pass for blithely unconcerned. “If you’re going to become a murderer on my behalf it should at least be someone worth the effort.”

“Good to know you’re thinking of me,” Shizuo deadpans.

“Of course,” Izaya says. His neck is straining on the angle of his head but he doesn’t look down. “I’m always thinking of my favorite senpai.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. He can hear the sudden tremor of sincerity on the words, the sound slipping past his defenses so smoothly he doesn’t realize it’s coming until the sentence is free. He shuts his mouth on the sound, hard, but it’s too late; he can see Shizuo turn to look at him, can see the shift of the other’s hair as his head comes up. Izaya doesn’t look down, doesn’t make eye contact. The bite of the wind is cold at the back of his neck.

There’s a pause, enough time for Izaya to hear Shizuo take a breath, enough time for the chill of panic to unwind all down Izaya’s spine and tense his grip around the top edge of the fence. The metal bites into his palms, digs pain against skin numbed by the cold; Izaya’s sure he’ll be able to feel the hurt later, once he’s back in the classroom, will be able to feel the ache with every shift of his fingers. He takes a breath of air, opens his mouth to say something even though he doesn’t know yet what lie will be persuasive enough to undo his accidental honesty, and then Shizuo says, “Help me bleach my hair,” with the rough edge of a command under the words.

Izaya blinks at the sky, the tension in his throat dying to speechless surprise. When he tips his chin down to look at the other Shizuo’s not looking at him; he’s staring out at the courtyard again, his head turned so far away Izaya can only see the dark of his hair, can’t make out the self-conscious flush that must be spreading across his cheeks.

Izaya lets his breath go silently, takes another lungful of air while he finds a smile to drag at the corner of his mouth, to tug his voice into the threat of laughter. “Decided to become a delinquent after all?”

“Shut up,” Shizuo tells him without looking up. He drags at Izaya’s jacket to punctuate; the force is enough that Izaya nearly topples off the fence and onto the rooftop, only saves himself by his painfully tight hold on the top loops of the metal. “Raijin doesn’t have any restrictions on hair color, so--”

“So you decided to take my advice after all?” Izaya finishes for him. “I’m flattered, senpai.”

“Be quiet.” Shizuo turns his head enough to direct a glare up past his hair; he _is_ blushing, there’s pink coloring all across his face, but his frown is firmly in place, doesn’t waver even when Izaya lets his grin pull wider. “You have to help me, it was your idea in the first place.”

“Of course,” Izaya says. He unwinds his fingers from the edge of the fence, straightening his hold without flinching at the ache of chill joints forced to shift; when he reaches out for Shizuo’s hair his fingers catch against the other’s forehead to shove his head farther back before sliding into the windswept tangle of the strands. “Trusting me with bleach near your eyes is a _fantastic_ idea.”

“Do you want to help me or not?” Shizuo demands. His blush is fading fast; there’s just his glare left now, coupled with the frown setting into the corners of his mouth like it’s coming home to stay. “I’ll do it myself if you’re going to be a brat.”

“I’ll help,” Izaya says. “It’s not like I have anything better to do after graduation, after all.”

That’s not the right thing to say either, from the way it makes Izaya’s stomach drop like it’s toppled over the edge of the roof and the way Shizuo’s frown fades into the uncomfortable softness of unwanted sympathy in his eyes. But Izaya manages to hold onto his smirk, this time, and Shizuo’s expression is easy to chase into anger with a fist of his hair and a sharp drag against the hold.

The cherry trees are threatening springtime, but for now the air is still winter-cold.


	21. Wet

“How much longer do we need to leave it in?” Shizuo asks, pitching his voice loud to be heard over the hum of the bathroom fan. He’s been asking at five-minute intervals since they started, his shoulders hunching into less and less patience with each of Izaya’s teasing replies; by now he looks ready to put his fist through the wall just out of sheer boredom.

“You can’t rush it,” Izaya tells him from the other side of the room, where he’s set himself up to watch Shizuo’s hair fade out of its natural dark into lighter and lighter shades with each passing minute. “No one would be sufficiently intimidated by a delinquent with orange hair, Shizuo-senpai.”

“It’s not orange,” Shizuo growls, reaching up to pull one of the sticky locks down over his forehead so he can glare cross-eyed at it. “Is it?”

Izaya grins from his lean against the wall. “It was,” he teases. “Like a carrot, it was amazing.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo tells him. “Unless you want to bleach _your_ hair after this.”

“No,” Izaya demurs, bracing against the floor so he can push himself to his feet. Even with the fan on the smell of chemicals is heavy in the enclosed space; the fumes make his balance sway for a moment, takes him a breath before he can steady himself enough to draw his fingertips away from the support of the wall and move forward. “I _want_ people to underestimate me, it’s more fun that way.”

“You’re awful,” Shizuo tells him as Izaya comes up to stand behind him and reach over his bare shoulder for the showerhead. “You’re going to destroy people’s lives, aren’t you?”

“Only if they get in my way,” Izaya says easily. “Do you want to shut your eyes, or do you want to see if the bleach will make you blind?”

“Don’t be morbid,” Shizuo tells him, but he ducks forward obediently anyway, hunching his shoulders and hanging his head over his knees. His jeans are old ones, torn by past-tense fistfights and stained with blood too deep-set to come out to just a simple wash; Izaya considers the dark patterns for a moment, wonders if he was present for any of the causes of those stains, wonders if the blood is all Shizuo’s or if any of it is that of his victims. The thought of blood not-his permanently staining Shizuo’s clothes shudders chill down his spine; Izaya frowns and reaches for the tap to turn the water on.

“Keep your eyes shut, senpai,” he says, aiming the spray of the water at the top of Shizuo’s bowed head without giving him a chance to respond. Shizuo hisses at the chill of the spray -- Izaya didn’t wait for it to warm up -- but Izaya just reaches out to press his fingers into the weight of the other’s hair, to push the locks apart so the water can reach down to bare scalp. The spray rinses the chemicals clear of Shizuo’s hair, parts the locks into waves stuck flat against his head; it’s strange to see them so pale, to see the dark brunet of Shizuo’s natural color converted into bleached yellow nearly as light as his skin.

“How does it look?” Shizuo asks, his voice weirdly modulated by the water cascading around his face and the hunch of his shoulders. “Did you miss any parts?”

“Of course I did,” Izaya says. He shifts the water, lets it rinse through the curtain of Shizuo’s hair in advance of the push of his fingers. It’s getting warmer, now, the water heating as it runs over the other’s scalp; Izaya’s fingers welcome the heat, easing into enough comfort that he can appreciate the soft of Shizuo’s hair under his hand and the way the locks give way to his touch. “Sorry, did you not want a checkerboard pattern?”

“Don’t be a brat,” Shizuo tells him without any indication of believing Izaya’s teasing. “How is it?”

Izaya catches his fingers into a handful of Shizuo’s hair, holds it still against the spray of the water. The strands are bright against his fingers, pale all the way down to Shizuo’s scalp.

“Terrible,” he says, and lets the lock fall. He leans in closer, tipping over Shizuo’s shoulders so he can reach and pull the other’s hair back from his face to rinse the last of the bleach out. “Turns out this was an awful idea, senpai.”

“Fine,” Shizuo sighs. “Don’t tell me, I’ll just wait to see for myself.” He shifts his shoulders, rocking back enough that he bumps against Izaya leaning over him. “Aren’t you going to get wet standing that close?”

Izaya digs his fingers into Shizuo’s hair. “Nah,” he drawls, and drags back to tug the edge of pain against the other’s scalp. Shizuo hisses at the hurt, rocks backwards in an involuntary effort to relieve the strain; his shoulders press against Izaya’s stomach, the warm water clinging to him soaking into the fabric and sticking it flush to Izaya’s skin. “It’s fine.”

“If you say so,” Shizuo says. He moves a hand from his knee, runs it through the wet spill of his hair to push it back from his face as he lifts his chin; for a moment Izaya can see the dark of his eyelashes over still-shut eyes, his frown of discomfort turned upside-down by Izaya’s angle over him. “Isn’t it all out now?”

“Almost,” Izaya tells him, and aims the water directly at Shizuo’s face. Shizuo splutters, reaches out without opening his eyes to smack Izaya’s wrist away; the arc the water cuts as Izaya’s arm swings wide catches Shizuo’s half-wet jeans and splashes damp over the front of Izaya’s shirt. Izaya takes a half-step sideways, behind the barrier of Shizuo’s shoulders, and then lets his grip slide free of the showerhead so it falls to the floor instead. There’s another spray of water, the attachment spinning itself into stability against the wet of the tile before it steadies into an arc that drenches Shizuo’s leg and splashes halfway up his bare stomach.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Shizuo hisses, flinching back from the spray instead of reaching to shut it off, and Izaya laughs from the other side of the protection offered by his shoulders.

“You’re already soaked,” he says, reaching out to press his fingers into Shizuo’s dripping hair. “Just stay there and keep me safe from the water.”

“Fuck you,” Shizuo says, twisting to swing an arm out towards Izaya. Izaya’s rocking back over his heels, ready to stumble backwards as soon as Shizuo grabs at him, but then Shizuo shakes his hair back from his face, and looks up to grin vicious amusement at him, and Izaya’s movement stalls, his action frozen to stillness by the shock that hits him. Shizuo looks different with lighter hair, wild and raw and _dangerous_ , and then his fingers are closing on Izaya’s wrist and dragging forward and Izaya’s feet slide on the wet tile, his balance giving way to send him into a moment of heart-stopping panic as he topples forward. His hand comes out in instinctive attempt to save himself, lands hard against Shizuo’s thigh, but the contact point isn’t stable; Shizuo is twisting as fast as he’s pulling, pivoting his weight as soon as Izaya falls across his lap to dump them both onto the floor. Izaya’s shoulders hit the tile, the spray of the water hits his face, and Shizuo’s weight lands on top of him, his knees catching Izaya’s hips to pin him in place while he reaches for the fallen showerhead.

“You _brat_ ,” Shizuo tells him, while Izaya is still trying to catch his breath from the sudden inversion of his balance. “Take that,” and he turns the water on Izaya, the splash catching the other full in the face before Izaya can even get his hands up in reflexive protection. Izaya yelps, spitting water as he tries to twist away from the spray and runs up against the immovable resistance of Shizuo on top of him.

“ _Ah_ ,” he chokes, getting a hand up against the showerhead and attempting to push it aside. “Stop, _stop_!” But he’s laughing in spite of his spluttering protests, and when he blinks his vision clear of water Shizuo’s grinning at him too, his smile curling into familiarity even with the new color of the hair framing his features.

“You’re such an asshole,” Shizuo tells him, finally letting the showerhead drop. It doesn’t make much of a difference; Izaya’s hair is plastered to his head, his shirt more wet than dry. His heart is pounding, too, doesn’t ease even when Shizuo rocks up onto his knees and moves away so he can reach for the tap and shut the water off. “Have you ever tried just being nice for once?”

“No,” Izaya says. He pushes himself upright, reaches to run a hand through his hair; the motion gives him an excuse to cover his face behind his wrist as much as a means to press water out of the strands. “You’d die of shock, and I’d hate to have my senpai’s death on my conscience.”

“Brat,” Shizuo tells him.

“Bully,” Izaya shoots back. “You shouldn’t pick on people weaker than you, senpai.” He hunches his shoulders, grimaces at the way his wet shirt clings to his skin. “Am I supposed to just go home like this?”

Shizuo rolls his eyes. “Don’t be stupid,” he says, extending a hand; when Izaya takes it Shizuo pulls a moment before he’s ready, dragging him to his feet before Izaya has had a chance to catch up to what’s going on. “You can borrow some of my clothes while those are drying.”

“Your clothes don’t _fit_ me,” Izaya protests. “I don’t want to walk home looking like I can’t dress myself.”

“So stay until yours are dry,” Shizuo tells him. “You weren’t planning on just leaving as soon as we were done, were you?”

“Hmm,” Izaya considers. “I was, but if you’re _that_ desperate for company…”

“Oh my god,” Shizuo growls, and reaches out to shove his hand against Izaya’s head, hard enough to knock the other stumbling sideways before he runs up against the bathroom wall and regains his balance. “ _Stay_. You can go home after dinner, alright?”

Izaya doesn’t agree out loud -- capitulation would chase away the frown at Shizuo’s mouth and the tension in his forehead, after all -- but he laughs, and when Shizuo reaches out for him it’s to drop an arm around his shoulders and pull him physically towards the bathroom door. Izaya’s shirt is going cold, the warmth of the water fading into the chill of damp, but Shizuo’s arm is hot against the back of his neck and heavy on his shoulders, and when he shivers it’s not for the temperature.


	22. Breathless

Izaya is never going to admit how empty the school feels without Shizuo.

It doesn’t make any sense, from a rational perspective. The classrooms are still as full as they ever were, the halls swarming with all manner of students ranging across all three years of the attendees. As far as observation goes, Izaya has dozens of possible replacements for Shizuo; he spends the whole day walking past hundreds of new students offering new contacts for plots and new personalities to learn and to manipulate. So he has no excuse at all for the fact that he says not five words to anyone all day, that he spends the lunch hour leaning over the railing and staring out at the rooftops instead of speaking to any of the new students, that by the time he’s leaving his last class he feels more distant from his classmates than he did over break. The only comfort, slim though it is, is that with Shizuo gone no one in the school is likely to notice his behavior as particularly out of the ordinary, far less to comment on it. The relative safety from being observed should be reassuring, should unknot the tension in Izaya’s chest and leave him to breathe easy in the certainty of his own invisibility.

Why it doesn’t -- why it only weights his shoulders further and aches sharp against the inside of his chest -- is something Izaya doesn’t want to look at too closely.

He thought lunch would be the worst of it. Classes remain more or less the same with Shizuo’s presence or absence; the gap of a year kept them from ever sharing a classroom, and the few first-year additions make almost no difference in Izaya’s perception of the room. The time spent alone on the rooftop is unpleasant, certainly, but mentally bracing for the isolation with his thoughts keeps Izaya from thinking too much during the gap, brings him safely through to the afternoon without too much dangerous introspection. It’s not until he’s stepping into his shoes in the entryway, not until he turns reflexively towards his left where Shizuo always waited for him and finds no one there, that he realizes the walk home after school carries as much danger with it as the lunchtime rooftop did, and the more for his lack of foresight.

He delays as long as he can. Putting his shoes on is an easy process, usually taking him a matter of seconds; today he makes it last a minute, two, spends an extra handful of moments in straightening the uniform he doesn’t care about and making sure the classwork he doesn’t recall is secure in his bag. By the time he finally steps out of the entryway and into the clear cold of the springtime sunlight there’s only a handful of other students lingering in the courtyard, a few third-year girls chattering under one of the cherry trees and a first and a second year in heated conversation by one of the stairwells. Izaya doesn’t give either the rattle of gossip or the first-day flirtation more than a glance; now that he’s in the emptiness of the courtyard, he wants nothing so much as he wants to be at home and shut behind the security of his bedroom door.

He keeps his head down as he clears the front gate. There’s no one along the path, nothing to offer any barrier to him heading straight home; if he keeps his head down and his mind blank he doesn’t have to think about the gap at his side, doesn’t have to feel the ache in his chest undermining any claim at emotional neutrality he might attempt in his own head. He can watch the rhythm of his steps hitting the sidewalk, can let the jolt of each footfall jar up his spine and through his tipped-in shoulders to settle in his teeth, and he doesn’t have to--

“ _Izaya-kun!_ ”

Izaya’s never turned around so fast in his life.

Shizuo’s out of breath by the time he catches up; his breathing is coming hard enough for Izaya to hear, his newly yellow hair catching on sweat to stick a few pale locks to his forehead. His jacket -- pale blue, a color Izaya recognizes from high schoolers downtown but that is odd to see on Shizuo -- is rumpled over his shoulders, what must have once been smooth lines completely undone by the same rush that has so stolen Shizuo’s breathing.

“Senpai,” Izaya says while Shizuo is tipping his head back as if he can gain more oxygen for his lungs by the angle of his shoulders, and then his mouth stalls, his tongue weighting itself to stillness with too-many possibilities for his next statement. _What are you doing here_ is as obvious as the answer is, _how’s high school?_ too mundane to make it past the sudden tension that is threatening Izaya’s throat. He can hear his breathing catch as he stares at Shizuo’s neck, as he watches the other’s deep inhales shift in his shoulders, and still he’s silent, his one offering of coherency tying him to more follow-up than he is capable of giving with the roar of confusion and the press of gratitude and the sudden, sharp pain of relief against the inside of his ribcage.

Shizuo takes a deep inhale, lets it out in a rush; then he finally turns his head down and blinks himself into focus on the other. Izaya has no idea what expression he’s offering, still can’t parse his own feelings aside from the overarching one of painful surprise, but Shizuo doesn’t comment on either his reaction or the hanging silence left by Izaya’s abandoned sentence. Instead he’s narrowing his eyes, drawing his mouth down into a frown, and when he speaks it’s to say, “You didn’t wait for me to meet you,” with all the weight of an accusation in his voice.

Izaya swallows hard, tries to force the lump in his throat farther back, where it won’t interrupt his speech. “Did I not?” He sounds a little bit strangled, a little odd in his own ears, but Shizuo is moving forward without waiting for his response and Izaya is left to fall into pace with the other’s stride. “I had a lot of other things on my mind.”

“You care that much about school now that you’re a third year?” Shizuo asks. His hair is bright in Izaya’s peripheral vision; it keeps catching the sunlight when the wind ruffles it, keeps distracting Izaya’s focus away from the pavement in front of them and up to the motion of the strands. “I didn’t think anything could make you care about classes that much.”

“Of course,” Izaya says, his voice warming as he falls into the familiar rhythm of teasing, of constructing lies out of nothing to paper over the dangerous depth of true emotion. “I have to start thinking about my future now.”

Shizuo laughs, sounding as much sincere as skeptical. Izaya can feel the sound run down the whole length of his spine like electricity burning itself to heat in his veins.

“You don’t have to worry,” Shizuo says without turning. “Raijin’s not that hard to get into, you know.”

Izaya’s breathing inverts itself in his throat, chokes him on nothing for a moment before he can collect himself to toss back an appropriate response. “Well obviously, seeing as _you_ made it in.”

“Brat,” Shizuo tells him, but he’s grinning when he looks sideways, and the shove of his hand through Izaya’s hair is too gentle to carry any real irritation. “When are you going to learn proper respect for your senpai?”

“With you as such an excellent role model, I’m sure I’ll figure it out in a few decades,” Izaya purrs, leaning in sideways to dig the sharp angle of his elbow into Shizuo’s ribs. Shizuo growls at him, but he doesn’t move away across the width of the sidewalk, and Izaya stays close, so near he can bump his knee against Shizuo’s on alternate steps.

The next time a gust of wind catches them, the bite of it breaks around Shizuo’s shoulders before it can chill Izaya’s skin.


	23. Shadows

“Are you eating enough?” is the first thing Shizuo says to Izaya at their agreed-upon meeting place a handful of blocks away from Izaya’s house. Izaya hasn’t even managed to get a greeting out before Shizuo is fixing him with all the intensity of a glare coupled with the soft yellow of his bleached hair; it would probably be an intimidating combination, Izaya thinks, if he were someone else. As it is:

“Hello to you too,” he drawls as he approaches. He had planned to stop, to linger still for a moment through the initial greetings and the possibility of physical contact that comes with them, but Shizuo’s hunched shoulders and dark glare make the allure of walking right past him utterly irresistible. Izaya keeps going without pause, continuing down the sidewalk even when Shizuo growls irritation and turns to catch up to him. “Did you miss mothering me that much, senpai?”

“Don’t change the subject,” Shizuo insists. His hand closes at the hood of Izaya’s oversized jacket, drags hard enough to tug the other backwards; Izaya only stumbles for a moment, forced into hesitation for the span of a step, and then Shizuo is alongside him, letting his hold go in favor of shoving his hands into his pockets and glaring sideways at the other. “When was the last time you had a full meal?”

“I _am_ capable of feeding myself,” Izaya points out without turning. His mouth is tense at the corner, curving on the threat of a smile trying to break free on the odd warmth in his chest, but he doesn’t let it go any wider than a grin, even when he glances sideways to catch Shizuo frowning at him. “I did for years before you decided to make me your life’s work.”

“You’re not my life’s work,” Shizuo snaps. “I just know you won’t eat lunch unless I’m there.”

“One skipped meal isn’t going to kill me,” Izaya informs him. “Are you that concerned I’ll fall into a decline without your bracing presence?” He takes a pair of too-fast steps to outpace the other, pivots on a heel so he can flash a grin at Shizuo as he walks backwards down the mostly-deserted sidewalk. “I hate to break it to you, senpai, but you’re not that integral to my continued existence.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo tells him, his frown cracking into a huff of what would be a laugh if he weren’t trying so hard to hold it back. When he reaches out to make a grab at Izaya’s jacket Izaya stutters another pair of fast steps backwards to dodge, laughing at the crease of frustration the missed attempt sets in Shizuo’s forehead. “It’s not that I think you can’t take care of yourself.” Another grab, with his other hand this time; Izaya is distracted by the edge of a smile collecting at the corner of Shizuo’s mouth, only barely manages to drag his wrist free of Shizuo’s hold before the grip steadies into unbreakable strength. Shizuo scowls as Izaya’s laugh swings higher in his throat, his eyes going dark with frustration, and then he’s lunging forward to grab at the other with both hands, moving so fast Izaya is still stumbling backwards over his lost balance when Shizuo’s arm loops around his shoulders to catch his fall. For a moment it’s just the support of the other’s hold keeping Izaya upright against the force of gravity, the weight of Shizuo’s arm pinning Izaya in against his chest; when Izaya takes a breath the air is warm against Shizuo’s shirtfront.

“I just worry,” Shizuo growls over the top of Izaya’s head, turning the words so rough they sound more like an insult than a statement of concern. “For all I know you’re gambling away your organs to the mafia or something.”

Izaya curls his fingers into a fist, swings out to shove the shape of his knuckles against the soft space just below Shizuo’s ribs. It’s not hard enough to be a punch -- however much he might wish to offer that response, his arm is shaking too badly to allow it -- but it’s more than a shove, at least, and enough that Shizuo’s breathing rushes out in a startled gasp and distracts him from the hold he has on Izaya’s shoulders. Izaya ducks free of the other’s arm, stumbles away by a few steps while Shizuo is still hissing at the impact, and by the time the other looks back up Izaya has turned his shoulders to hide the expression in his eyes.

“Not _my_ organs,” he says, attaining an edge to his voice that sounds like laughter even to himself instead of the strained almost-panic that it feels in his chest. “Other people’s, maybe. You don’t need more than one kidney, do you, senpai?” Shizuo huffs irritation behind him, jogs forward to catch up to Izaya’s pace, and Izaya goes on quick, before Shizuo has a chance to draw the subject back around to a more dangerous topic. “Though I suppose I ought to wait until we’ve met up with Shinra for this conversation. Do you think he’d be willing to cut you up just for the fun of it, or should I come up with some kind of payment for his services?”

Shizuo groans. “You’ve only gotten more morbid since I graduated. Remind me again why I spend any time at all with you?”

“To save me from myself,” Izaya says immediately. “Without you at my side I’d be murdered within the week.” He reaches for Shizuo’s shoulder, braces his hand hard against the other; with the support he can push himself off the sidewalk and jump smoothly up to the edge of the knee-high wall running alongside it to balance against the cement lip. “Or in charge of the entire city. It all depends on how my luck pans out.”

“I’m not sure which of those is more horrifying,” Shizuo informs him, looking up past the pale of his hair to track Izaya’s easy pace along the edge. “Will you get down if I tell you to?”

“If you didn’t know the answer already you wouldn’t be asking,” Izaya tells him. Shizuo sighs defeat, Izaya laughs delight, and then there’s a shout from the end of the next block, “Izaya-kun!” to pull Izaya’s attention up and away from the glow of sunlight against Shizuo’s hair. Shinra’s running towards them, darting across the cross-street between without pausing to glance for traffic; from behind him a dark arm flails panic, a hand comes up to press unvoiced concern to the side of a yellow motorcycle helmet, but Shinra doesn’t turn, doesn’t even pause at the skid of brakes and the honk of a horn that accompanies his precipitous movement. He’s bolting towards Shizuo and Izaya instead, smiling in unrestrained delight, and Izaya barely has time to pause his forward motion before Shinra is flinging his arms around his knees as the easiest part of him to reach under the circumstances.

“It’s been ages!” he insists, even though Izaya knows it can’t possibly have been much longer than the six weeks and two days that have passed since Shizuo’s graduation to Raijin. “It’s great to see you!”

“That’s good to hear,” Izaya says, looking past Shinra’s effusive hug to smirk down at Shizuo’s scowl. “Since Shizuo-senpai apparently has been saving up all his negativity for me.”

Shinra laughs, lets his hold on Izaya’s knees go as he steps back over the sidewalk. Izaya leaps down from the edge without bracing himself at Shizuo’s shoulder this time; Shizuo hisses concern, reaches out to steady him, but Izaya lands smoothly and turns away while completely ignoring the hold that tightens at his elbow.

“Oh no,” Shinra volunteers as he turns to look back down the sidewalk and wave exuberance towards the black-clad woman carefully making her way across the street towards them. “He’s been worrying about you ever since we started at Raijin. All he ever talks about is whether you’re eating lunch or if you’ve lost your jacket or if maybe you’re dying in an alley somewhere after a knifefight.”

“I only said that _one time_ ,” Shizuo growls. Izaya looks up at him but Shizuo’s not looking at him; he’s glaring at Shinra instead, his forehead creasing on embarrassed irritation to match the set of his jaw.

“I’m flattered,” Izaya drawls, just loud enough for Shizuo to look at him instead of at Shinra. For a moment they’re staring at each other, Izaya offering a grin to match the frown Shizuo is pinning him with; Shizuo’s hand is still on his elbow, tensing past the point of pain in what Izaya is sure is an unconscious reaction. Then:

“Celty!” Shinra chirps, and they both look away at once, Shizuo’s hand dropping away from Izaya’s elbow with a speed just slightly too great to pass for casual. Izaya shrugs the sleeves of his coat down over his hands, curls his fingers around the soft of the cuffs, and then Shinra’s coming closer, gesturing with one arm at the woman he has a proprietary arm around. She has her helmet ducked forward, her fingers working rapidly over the keyboard of a phone; as Shinra pushes her forward she lifts it, offering the screen in a clear invitation for Izaya’s attention.

 _I’m so sorry about Shinra_ , the text across it says. _Please accept my apology on his behalf._

“Isn’t she perfect?” Shinra says, sighing the words as if he’s talking about some famous sculpture instead of the presence of someone right in front of him who can hear the melting heat in his voice. “I told you, didn’t I?”

Celty ducks even farther forward, her shoulders hunching into what is clearly a sigh even absent the associated sound. Her fingers flutter over the keys again. _So, so sorry_.

Izaya doesn’t have to reach for his laugh. “Like a goddess,” he says, and then, while Celty is doing her level best to evaporate from the space she’s occupying, “Celty, huh?” He flicks his sleeve back with a melodramatic flourish, offers his hand with as much loose-limbed grace as he can muster. “Orihara Izaya. Nice to meet you.”

Shizuo groans from behind him. “Sorry about him,” he sighs as Celty ducks a nod of greeting and extends her gloved hand to close around Izaya’s. The texture is smoother than leather, the give of the fabric easier, but it’s oddly chill, like it’s clinging to nighttime cold instead of warming with the sunlight overhead. “He’s an insufferable brat.”

Celty types something, offers it to Shizuo so fast Izaya doesn’t have time to read it. Shizuo barks a laugh, the low burst of sound that always makes Izaya jump, and shrugs an easy response. “Yeah, well.” He reaches out, drapes an arm around Izaya’s shoulders; the weight drags Izaya off-balance until he topples against Shizuo’s side, but the other doesn’t seem to notice the extra weight of the impact against him. “He’d be worse on his own.”

Celty’s shoulders shake in some soundless laugh of reaction, and Shizuo grins just in Izaya’s periphery. Izaya’s chest goes tight, aching on a bitter pressure more familiar than he’d like, but before he can snap something with sufficient bite to it Shizuo’s arm shifts, fingers landing in his hair to ruffle it out-of-order. All the air leaves his lungs at once in a sudden, shocked rush, and when he looks up Shizuo’s looking at him again, the lopsided drag of his smile angled just for Izaya to see.

Izaya takes a breath, lets his shoulders relax under Shizuo’s arm, and allows that maybe Celty might be worth knowing after all.


	24. Plans

Shizuo’s easy to spot, even amidst the crowd of high schoolers pouring through the front gates of Raijin. His shoulders would be enough on their own, Izaya thinks; the careless slouch of more breadth than one teenager should have is telltale even from a distance, and only made easier to pick out by the bright of his bleached-blond hair in the sea of dark heads. Izaya sees him approaching well before Shizuo has a chance to spot him lounging in the shadows of the front gate; the warning gives Izaya plenty of time to take a half-step to the side and lose himself entirely behind the cover of the wall while he waits for Shizuo to step past the entrance. It’s only a handful of seconds, enough time for Izaya to toss the can in his hands from one to the other in tiny arcs of idle motion, and then Shizuo is stepping into view, his head tipped down and his gaze focused on the screen of his phone. Izaya knows what he’s reading -- the message is from him, after all, the unintelligibly vague _Wait_ sent twenty minutes ago when he settled against the gate -- and he grins unseen as Shizuo’s expression darkens into a scowl of frustration before he snaps the keypad of his phone open to tap out a response. His head is still down as he turns away along the sidewalk and presents his shoulders to Izaya; in the cover of the crowd it’s easy for Izaya to jog closer, to fall into step right behind Shizuo and close enough to touch. Shizuo doesn’t look back as Izaya reaches out, doesn’t turn at the shadow falling over his jacket; then Izaya balances the soda can against the other’s shoulder, lifts his fingers to let the weight settle, and Shizuo’s head snaps up, his shoulders pivoting so fast the can topples and starts to fall before Izaya can reach to snatch it out of the air.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Shizuo’s growling, generic irritation at being startled before he sees who it is; then his gaze lands on Izaya’s grin, his expression falters into blank surprise, and he blurts, “ _Izaya-kun_ ,” sounding sufficiently shocked that even Izaya is satisfied.

“Hey there,” Izaya smirks at him. “Miss me?”

“What are you doing here?” Shizuo asks without answering the question. “Shouldn’t you be at school?”

Izaya lets his grin tug at the corner of his mouth, dragging his expression lopsided and manic with the secondhand adrenaline of Shizuo’s surprise curling hot in his veins. “We had a half day,” he says, tossing the soda into the air and catching it as it falls. “I thought I’d come to meet you for once.”

Shizuo’s gaze slides away from Izaya’s face, down to the soft collar of the coat notably not the uniform of their middle school, lingering on the blue of the can in Izaya’s hand. His expression darkens. “You ditched class.”

Izaya’s laugh is hot on the back of his tongue. “Maybe.” He tosses the can towards Shizuo’s face, suggests a moment too late “Catch.” Shizuo’s hand is already up, his fingers closing reflexively on the aluminum, and when he scowls at Izaya Izaya just grins and leans back, sliding his hands into his pockets and making an indolent curve of his back.

“You shouldn’t ditch,” Shizuo tells him, angling the can away from him as he cracks the lid open. The liquid inside hisses at the release of pressure, the carbonation bubbling past the opening to spill over Shizuo’s fingers; Shizuo grimaces and tips the can sideways so it spills mostly onto the ground and not his hand. It’s not until the pressure has eased that he reaches for the lid again to open it the rest of the way and bring it to his mouth for a swallow. “Especially as a third-year.”

“I’m going to pass my exams,” Izaya tells him, tipping himself back against the edge of the planter behind him so he can push himself up the inch to sit at the edge and leave his feet to swing free of the support of the sidewalk. “I don’t see why the rest of it matters, senpai.”

“School is important,” Shizuo tells him. He takes a step closer, turns to lean alongside Izaya; he’s close enough for Izaya to touch the back of his neck if he wanted, to fit his fingers to the strip of bare skin between soft yellow hair and the back of Shizuo’s jacket collar. “It’s not just about exams.”

“Isn’t it?” Izaya asks. Shizuo’s fingers are damp from the spilled soda; he switches the can to his other hand, lifts the other to his mouth to lick the sweet off his skin. Izaya watches the inside of his wrist, his attention catching and sticking against the flex of tendons under the skin, against the pattern of bruise-dark veins just visible over them. “I thought the whole point of middle school was to get accepted into a good high school.”

“It is,” Shizuo says. When he tips his head back for another swallow of soda his hair falls back from his face, leaving his features clear for the bright of the autumn sun to illuminate them. “Raijin’s not that good of a school, though.” He tips his head back down, stares out at the street in front of them; Izaya can see his gaze slide sideways, catch and meet Izaya’s stare for a moment before he looks away again. “You could probably get in somewhere better, if you tried.”

Izaya’s breathing does a weird inversion in his chest, sticking in the back of his throat like it’s trying to choke him, like he’s forgotten how to exhale. It takes him a moment to straighten out the rhythm of his breathing, another to let the odd shakiness in his chest go; it’s not until he’s braced his arms out next to him and locked his elbows into forced stillness that he trusts his voice to hold steady enough for speech. “Come on, senpai,” he says, keeping his head turned towards the street as he watches Shizuo’s profile from the corner of his eye. “As if I could leave you to your reign of terror without coming to see at least some of it.”

Shizuo’s head turns, his gaze catching and lingering at Izaya’s face as his mouth curves up at the corner, the soft of his expression touching the dark of his eyes before he collects himself enough to offer a mock scowl. “It’s not like that,” he says, jabbing his elbow hard against Izaya’s thigh and fixing him with a frown. “I hardly ever get into fights, now.”

“How lucky for everyone,” Izaya tells him. “I told you the hair was a good idea.” He reaches out to sink his fingers into Shizuo’s hair, to curl his hold into a fist; Shizuo tips sideways in an attempt to jerk away but Izaya doesn’t let go, makes a show of frowning at the other’s scalp. “The roots are growing out,” he tells him. “You should bleach it again this weekend.”

“ _You_ should,” Shizuo tells him, reaching up to close his hand on Izaya’s wrist and drag his hold free by force. “It’s a pain to keep up with it and it was your idea in the first place, you should at least help me do some of the work.”

“You could always cut it off instead,” Izaya suggests, twisting his wrist free so he can reach out for Shizuo’s soda instead. “Just get a buzzcut if you hate it so much.”

“I never said that,” Shizuo tells him, holding the soda far out of reach and reaching up to shove at Izaya’s shoulder and hold him back out of range.  “I’m not going to cut all my hair off.”

“I never figured you to be vain about your looks, Shizuo-senpai,” Izaya teases. “It seems odd for a monster to care that much about what he looks like.”

“That again,” Shizuo groans instead of growling. “You are never going to stop being a brat, are you?” But he’s grinning, the sharp edges of his teeth catching the light as he holds off Izaya’s attempt at the soda one-handed, and his eyes are bright on amusement more than anger.

“Shizuo!” comes a familiar voice from the direction of the school gate. Shizuo’s attention slides away from Izaya to respond to his name, though his hold lingers still; even with the distraction, Izaya can’t push past the bracing hold Shizuo has on his shoulder.

“Shinra,” he says, and Izaya gives up his futile attempts for the soda to look back over his shoulder at the pair of approaching high schoolers, one sparkling with familiar cheer and the other following more sedately in his wake. “Hey, Kadota.”

“Yo,” the stranger says, offering a nod that encompasses both Shizuo and Izaya at once. He’s in the pale blue Raijin uniform like Shinra and Shizuo, his hair as dark as Shinra’s and his gaze steady even as he takes in Izaya’s appearance and perch on the wall.

“This is our friend Orihara Izaya!” Shinra offers without giving anyone else a chance to speak up.

The other boy nods again, a little more deliberately this time. “Kadota Kyohei,” he offers. His voice is low, purring in the back of his throat like it’s rolling over gravel. “You’re Shizuo’s kouhai, right?”

Izaya doesn’t have to reach for the smile that uncurls itself across his face. “That’s right,” he says, and lifts a hand in greeting. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” Kadota considers Izaya for a minute. “You gonna come to Raijin next year with us?”

“That’s the plan,” Izaya declares, looking away from Kadota and back to Shizuo watching him from under the weight of his hair. Izaya lets his grin go wider. “I can’t leave my senpai to pine for me all alone.”

Shizuo shoves him off the wall for that, but not before Izaya sees his expression break into a laugh. Izaya doesn’t mind; he just ends up catching his balance on Shizuo’s shoulder anyway.


	25. Facade

“Really, Dotachin,” Izaya drawls from the proprietary slouch he’s adopted over the edge of the kotatsu. “I need to meet some of these friends of yours, if it’s that easy to get them to provide you with illegal substances.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Kadota tells him as he cracks open the lid on his second beer and takes a sip. “It’s just beer. And don’t call me Dotachin.”

“I appreciate it,” Shinra says from the floor, where he has apparently decided to collapse after his first drink even though there’s not enough alcohol in the beers Kadota brought to more than hum pleasant warmth at the back of Izaya’s thoughts. Shinra has a second in his hand but he hasn’t opened it; he has it balanced on his stomach right now, held upright by the very tips of his fingers as his attention wanders across the ceiling. “We can all be more honest with ourselves this way.”

“You’re already too honest,” Izaya tells him. “What did Celty say the last time she rejected your advances?”

“ _Celty_ ,” Shinra wails, his voice cracking on emotion, and Kadota shoots Izaya an exasperated look before leaning over to pat Shinra’s shoulder as he begins to ramble himself into a mismatched story impossible for anyone but himself to follow. Izaya grins and is just reaching out for the open can on the top of the kotatsu when the door opens to admit Shizuo. He considers the room for a moment as he pushes the door shut before dismissing Kadota and Shinra to fix a glare at Izaya.

“What did you do this time?” he asks, dropping along his side of the kotatsu and kicking his feet into the warmth under it.

“Nothing,” Izaya insists, closing his hand on the can and bringing it to his lips. “You know how Shinra gets about Celty.” Kadota gives him another look at that, but Shizuo doesn’t seem persuaded in any case, judging from the way he frowns as he digs the weight of his heel into Izaya’s ankle.

“Don’t be a pest,” he says. “And that’s _mine_ , get your own.”

“I don’t want a second one all to myself,” Izaya tells him as Shizuo’s fingers close atop his to wrench the beer can free of his hold. “I just wanted a sip of yours.”

“You’ve had half of it yourself already,” Shizuo growls at him.

Izaya shrugs. “You weren’t drinking it.” That gets him a glare and the tightening of Shizuo’s fingers against the aluminum, hard enough that Izaya can hear the can start to give way, but then Shizuo brings it to his lips and tips his head back to swallow what remains of the beer at one go. Izaya braces his chin against his hand, watches the motion of Shizuo’s throat as he swallows; by the time Shizuo brings the empty can to the kotatsu table and catches a breath Izaya’s grin is stretching wide across his mouth with irrepressible force.

“Impressive,” he says, reaching out to bump the can with his fingertips so it rattles onto its side and rolls a half-inch across the surface. “We’ll make an alcoholic of you yet, senpai.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo snaps. “It’s one beer.”

“You’re looking awfully flushed,” Izaya teases. He’s not -- what color there is in Shizuo’s face is laid high across his cheekbones, more the familiar crimson of irritation than the all-over pink of inebriation -- but Izaya reaches out anyway, stretching his fingers over the distance between them to press his touch to Shizuo’s skin. “And you feel warm.”

“Brat,” Shizuo tells him, his hand coming up to close on Izaya’s wrist and draw his touch away. “You’ve had as much as I have, do _you_ feel drunk?” He looks down at Izaya’s hand, the almost-amusement threatening his mouth collapsing into a frown as he closes his fingers tight around the other’s. “You’re _freezing_ , it’s no wonder I feel warm.”

“It’s fine,” Izaya says. “It’s winter, it’s supposed to be cold.” His whole arm is tingling as if it’s been electrified, his skin prickling with warmth all the way from his fingers up to the angle of his elbow. Shizuo’s still frowning at his hand, tightening his grip on Izaya’s fingers as if to press heat into them by force; Izaya can feel the threat of too-much pressure offered by the other’s strength, the weight of danger bearing down against his hand before it stops just shy of pain. It feels like a trap, as if the moment Izaya shifts or breathes wrong the whole thing will close on him and crush the ice of his fingers out of existence.

“You’ve been inside for hours,” Shizuo reminds him, and then he lets go as easily as he had taken Izaya’s hand in the first place, the cage of his fingers releasing and vanishing before Izaya can catch his breath. Shizuo looks away, back to where Shinra is still wailing softly on the floor, and Izaya withdraws his hand from the top of the kotatsu and slides it under the blanket instead, where none of the others will see the way he curls his fingers in on themselves to dig against his palm. “Calm down, Shinra.”

“You don’t understand,” Shinra says immediately, returning to coherency with a speed that would be jarring had Izaya not seen it demonstrated on multiple previous occasions. He rolls himself sideways, pushes back up to sitting as Kadota draws back; his glasses are askew but he doesn’t both to adjust them. “It’s just _wrong_ , to be separated from the one you love on Christmas.”

Shizuo rolls his eyes, Izaya laughs, and it’s Kadota who humors Shinra with a “Is it?” in a tone almost entirely polite interest with only very gentle amusement underneath.

“It is,” Shinra declares, and now he does adjust his glasses, as if he’s adopting the persona of the professor he appears to be whenever he gets himself onto his favorite subject. “I know you aren’t lucky enough to have Celty in your lives the way I have her in mine, but love is a wonderful thing!”

“You always make it seems very appealing,” Izaya drawls.

“Yes,” Shinra sighs, his focus wandering up and away to the ceiling again, as if he can see Celty in his imagination without needing the mundane assistance of reality. “I just wish I could spend the holiday with the person I love.”

“It’s good to know you value our company,” Kadota says.

“What?” Shinra looks back from the ceiling, blinks wide-eyed from behind his glasses at the other three. “I wouldn’t begrudge any of you leaving to spend time with the one you love.”

“Sorry,” Kadota says in the comfortable tone of a man whose current status as a bachelor is more an option than a necessity. “Nothing to report on that front, though I’ll be sure to tell you first.”

“What about Shizuo-senpai?” Izaya asks, tipping his head sideways and letting a smirk drag across his face. “Haven’t you managed to find yourself a girlfriend yet?”

Shizuo blinks, looking more shocked than upset. “What?”

“A girlfriend,” Izaya says, dragging the words long in the back of his throat as he reaches out to toy with the edge of the empty beer can and rotate the weight of it against the top of the table. It catches the light into flickering glare, cuts out to flash into Izaya’s eyes and blind him momentarily. “Don’t you have one?”

“Of course I don’t,” Shizuo snaps, reaching out to snatch the can away from Izaya’s fingers. Izaya looks up at him from under his hair, but Shizuo’s not looking at him; he’s frowning at the can instead, crushing the thin cylinder between his fingers as if it’s made of tissue paper. “Why, do _you_ have one?”

Izaya’s throat tenses, his breathing sticking on the knot just behind the back of his tongue; he can feel his heart thrumming hard against the inside of his chest, pounding against his ribcage as if it’s attempting to push free of his bones completely. He holds his smile, holds his gaze, waits until Shizuo glances back up at him with his mouth fallen soft on uncertainty and his eyes oddly dark under the weight of his hair; then he leans backwards, braces himself with his arms behind him so he can lift his foot, can kick out to shove his heel against the solid weight of Shizuo’s thigh.

“Come on, Shizuo-senpai,” he says, and it comes out almost a laugh, the breathless friction in his throat disguised into something that passes for amusement on his tongue. “I could never choose just one human to love more than the others, that wouldn’t be fair to the rest of them.”

“Or to the one, either,” Kadota offers. Shinra laughs louder than the joke warrants, a bright spill of sound no less sincere for how over-enthusiastic it is; Izaya’s grateful to the sound, grateful for the excuse to look away from Shizuo’s gaze, to grin past the ache of tension in his chest and wait for Shizuo’s attention to pull away and set him free of the need to keep his expression deliberately relaxed under the prickling awareness of the other’s stare.

It takes longer than he expected it to.


	26. Casual

“How do you like high school?”

Izaya doesn’t look up from where he’s deliberately shuffling the papers he has spread out across his desk to give the impression that he has something more important to be doing than watching Shizuo slouch against the edge of the empty desk alongside him. He twists his mouth, frowns dissatisfaction as if he’s giving the question serious thought as he flips through the next few pages of his mathematics textbook. “It’s boring,” he finally decides. “Not much different than middle school.”

“No one said it’d be particularly interesting,” Shizuo growls at him. “At least it’s safer than those stupid games you play with the yakuza.”

“Do you really think so?” Izaya says, and he does look up then, tipping his head to the side to knock his smirk even more off-center as he gazes up through the dark of his hair at Shizuo. Shizuo’s glaring at him, his forehead creased into the frustration that is common when he’s talking to Izaya and the norm when it’s on this subject; his hair is a tangle around his head, showing evidence of idle fingers shoving through the strands for the hours of class that make up the morning. “With you here, senpai, the school could turn into a warzone at any moment.”

Shizuo rolls his eyes. “Don’t be stupid,” he says as Izaya finally abandons toying with his assignment sheets and pushes to his feet. “I keep telling you, I don’t get into fights hardly at all anymore.” He straightens as quickly as Izaya does, unfolding from the angle he’s been making against the support of the desk behind him; he’s taller than Izaya remembers, the gap of their height inches here where there’s no ledge for Izaya to claim extra height from, and his uniform jacket clings across his shoulders like the fabric can barely handle the breadth of them. “Even if I did, I wouldn’t hurt _you_.”

“That’s a comfort,” Izaya says, and takes a faster half-step forward so he’s in the lead and removed from the temptation of staring at the movement of Shizuo’s shoulders under his jacket. “I’m sure you’ll be careful to recall this precise conversation the next time you fly into a rage.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo tells him as Izaya reaches the stairs to the roof and starts up them with a rapidfire pace that leaves Shizuo growling incoherent protest behind him and covering two steps with each stride. “I don’t have any reason to hurt you.”

“Oh, is that all?” Izaya speeds the rate of his steps, rushes up the last half of the stairs to the landing; when he pivots on a heel to look back Shizuo is rolling his eyes again, returning to taking one step at a time with a pace Izaya suspects to be deliberately slow to spite him. He grins and leans sideways to perch at the edge of the railing running alongside the stairs as he watches Shizuo approach. “I’ll have to give you some reasons, then.”

“You do _not_ ,” Shizuo informs him, his mouth tensing on a frown. “I have enough to worry about with you as it is.”

“You don’t need to worry about me,” Izaya tells him as Shizuo makes it to the landing. Izaya waits just long enough to be very nearly in range of Shizuo’s hold; then he steps sideways without looking, braces his heel against the next step and starts to go up them backwards. “Though believe me, I’m honored by your concern.”

“Sure you are.” Skepticism is grating over Shizuo’s voice; his attention is pinned to Izaya’s feet, his frown deepening as if he can keep the other from tripping by sheer force of will. “You’re going to hurt yourself doing that.”

“ _Honored_ ,” Izaya says again, drawling the word into a taunt as Shizuo spares a moment to glare up at him and see the grin Izaya’s levelling on him. “I’ve missed your fretting, senpai, really I have.”

“You’ve only gotten more irritating,” Shizuo tells him as he starts up the stairs in Izaya’s wake. “Were you _practicing_ over the last year or something?”

“Maybe you’ve just forgotten,” Izaya suggests. He swings one foot in a wide arc just to see the way Shizuo flinches and hunches in as if to catch him from a fall; it makes his smile crackle into a laugh in the back of his throat before he continues his ascent up the stairs.

“Brat,” Shizuo growls, and then he’s moving fast, lunging up the stairs so quickly Izaya doesn’t have time to react. He freezes, his footing too uncertain to allow for a rapid retreat, and Shizuo’s arm catches across his chest and around his shoulders to push him backwards and off-balance. Izaya stumbles over the stair behind him, scrambling for footing as he grabs at Shizuo’s arm, but there’s no stair at all, just the flat of the landing to the rooftop under him and the panicked rush of his heart in his chest. Izaya’s breathing hard with the rush of adrenaline in his veins, only saved from a shout by the complete lack of air to do so, and then Shizuo laughs against his ear, the sound low and purring into heat that Izaya can feel resonate down the whole length of his spine.

“You should have seen your face,” he purrs, and Izaya’s fingers tense involuntarily against the other’s arm, his hold digging in against Shizuo’s support as if he can steady himself that way, as if Shizuo’s touch is a remedy for the adrenaline sweeping incoherency through him and not the cause. The grip against Izaya’s shoulder eases, Shizuo slides his touch away without visible effort; Izaya’s hold on his arm is ignored as if it’s not there. Izaya’s not sure Shizuo even noticed. “Come on, aren’t you hungry?”

Izaya swallows hard, drawing the shape of a smile back onto his face before he turns to where Shizuo is waiting by the door to the rooftop, his fingers resting on the handle and his shoulders turned back towards Izaya.

“Does it matter?” Izaya asks, stepping forward towards the weight of the door. “You’re just going to feed me anyway, aren’t you?”

Shizuo laughs, a low rumble of agreement humming through the air between them, and as he pulls the door open his arm comes back around Izaya’s shoulders, the weight startling for how deceptively casual the motion is. Izaya thinks about flinching away, about ducking free of the pressure of Shizuo’s arm and the heat that comes with it, but then Shizuo shifts the easy angle of his arm like he’s trying to get comfortable, like he’s trying to fight the stiff edges of awkward self-consciousness back from the movement, and when Izaya glances up through his hair at him there’s a suggestion of color across Shizuo’s cheeks, pink rising to the surface of his skin before he has the excuse of the cold wind as the cause. It makes Izaya smile, a real one that he doesn’t have to reach for, and when he moves it’s to push in closer rather than to pull away.

Izaya doesn’t look up to see if Shizuo is smiling. He doesn’t want to know either way.


	27. Off-hand

Izaya’s become very good at spotting Shizuo from a distance. It’s easy at school, when he knows the other is likely to be present in the hallways and his blond hair makes him stand out from the sea of other students even if his height isn’t enough, and it’s not particularly difficult when they arrange to meet downtown and Izaya can climb onto the edge of some wall and scan the crowd for the slouch of familiar shoulders. Even when it’s an unplanned meeting Izaya can pick out the low rumble of Shizuo’s voice from a block away and knows the pattern of his walk enough to recognize at an even greater distance, and that’s assuming the other isn’t engaged in one of the all-out brawls that seem to catch up to him in spite his claims of wanting peace. Usually Izaya gets at least a few seconds to find a smirk for his lips as Shizuo approaches, sometimes enough time to have some taunt ready in his throat; usually he has his expression ready well before Shizuo sees him, so all the other sees is Izaya’s smirk and head-tilt consideration of him.

Unfortunately, sometimes Izaya doesn’t manage to get that warning.

He’s coming around a corner this time, emerging from the bland storefronts that stand as cover for the Awakusu-kai and making his way back out onto the more travelled downtown streets. The road is nearly empty as he approaches, foot traffic rare enough that he doesn’t slow down as much as he should, and then he steps out from around the corner and a weight runs into him with so much force he trips and starts to fall from the impact.

“ _Shit_ ,” and there’s a hand at his jacket, fingers closing into a hold on his sleeve. “Watch where you’re going, you’re--” and Izaya recognizes that voice, knows who it is a moment before Shizuo cuts himself off with a startled “Izaya-kun?”

“Senpai,” Izaya says as he looks up into Shizuo’s startled stare. “What a surprise.”

“What are you doing here?” Shizuo growls, as if Izaya has done him an injustice by not informing him preemptively that he was going to be in this place at this time. “I didn’t know you were going to be downtown today.”

“You didn’t ask,” Izaya says, and shrugs to dislodge the distracting weight of Shizuo’s hand on his shoulder. Shizuo lets his hold ease, lets his hand drop to his side, but he’s still frowning at Izaya as if trying to figure out what he’s doing. “You didn’t mention you were either. What are you doing, trying to pick a fight with a stranger who doesn’t know your reputation yet?”

“I don’t have a reputation,” Shizuo insists stubbornly. “I ran into Celty and Shinra and we went over to Russia Sushi.” He squints at Izaya, his frown deepening. “Have you eaten yet?”

Izaya waves his hand. “Stop fretting,” he says, and turns to walk away down the sidewalk secure in the knowledge that Shizuo will follow him. “Yes, senpai, I had lunch, does that satisfy you?”

“No,” Shizuo says, jogging a few strides to fall into step alongside Izaya. “What were you _doing_?”

“You can wander downtown without a goal in mind,” Izaya says without looking up. “Don’t you think I might be doing the same thing?”

“You’re never _just doing_ anything,” Shizuo tells him. “And if you’re going without me you’re getting into trouble. You told me you’d leave Blue Square alone.”

“Do you really believe whatever I tell you?” Izaya asks, looking up at Shizuo through his hair with a grin dragging its way onto his face. “That’s exciting, I’ll have to make use of that someday.”

Shizuo’s face could be a stormcloud with how hard he’s glaring. “ _Izaya-kun_.”

“It’s not Blue Square,” Izaya tells him, waving a hand to push aside the possibility. “They haven’t done anything at all for years. You’re so behind the times, senpai, I keep telling you. It’s all about the yakuza now.”

“Fuck,” Shizuo snaps, and he’s grabbing at Izaya’s wrist to stop him, turning him around to face the other’s glower. “Don’t get involved in this kind of shit, Izaya-kun, I keep _telling_ you.”

“I can take care of myself,” Izaya informs him, though he doesn’t try to pull his hand free of the unbreakable hold Shizuo has on him. “It’s not like I’m _part_ of the yakuza, I’m not stupid. They just want information.”

Shizuo’s forehead creases. “What? Why do they want information from _you_?”

“Because I know things.” Izaya meets Shizuo’s gaze without flinching away, without so much as letting his smile flicker from its position at his lips. “I pay attention.”

Shizuo’s frown deepens. “You don’t,” he says. “You don’t _know_ things, how would you?”

“I listen,” Izaya tells him. “I ask questions. Did you know the Blue Square that you’re so worried about had a leadership struggle four months ago?” Shizuo blinks, confusion flashing over his face, and Izaya can feel his grin stretching wider, tearing sharper against his lips. “Izumii barely kept control, and he’s real pissed about almost getting kicked out of his own gang. There’s a new drug people are talking about that’s going around some of the clubs in the city, a whole handful of addicts are desperate to get more of it. And people are talking about a mysterious black rider who’s been seen around town on a dark motorcycle that doesn’t make any sound and has no lights; they say he wears all black except for his helmet, that he might not even _have_ a head at all.” That startles Shizuo, as it was meant to; his hold eases and Izaya twists his wrist sideways to break his arm free of the other’s hold. “I _know_ things, senpai.”

“That’s.” Shizuo blinks hard, all the anger in his expression wiped away by shock. “How do you…?”

“Lots of ways,” Izaya says, and he turns away again, catching at the edge of his sleeve to pull it over the prints of Shizuo’s hold rising at his wrist. “The Awakusu trust me to give them good information.”

“Fuck,” Shizuo says succinctly. When he comes forward this time it’s closer than he was before, close enough that his arm bumps against Izaya’s shoulder as they continue down the sidewalk. “What did they ask you about?”

Izaya’s breathing catches in his throat. “Nothing,” he manages, but it doesn’t come out as casually as he intended it to; the word skips high at the back of his throat, deprives him of the possibility of pushing Shizuo’s attention away before it’s even formed. He goes sideways instead, continuing in a deliberately off-hand tone as lightly as he can manage. “There’ve been rumors about someone with absurd strength getting into fights with some of the gangs in town. Throwing vending machines or trash cans, you know, crazy things like that.”

Shizuo misses a step. “ _What_? That was _months_ ago, I--”

“I told them not to worry about it,” Izaya says without turning around. “The only one who should be thinking about you is me.” His skin prickles heat, the back of his neck flushing into self-consciousness; he doesn’t look up to see the way Shizuo is looking at him, to see if Shizuo is looking at him at all. “They let it drop after that.”

Shizuo is silent for a moment. Izaya can hear the sound of their footsteps falling out-of-rhythm to each other on the sidewalk.

“Thanks,” he says finally, his voice as rough on the word as if it’s an insult and not appreciation.

Izaya’s throat is tight. He resists the urge to give himself away with a cough. “I know how you hate violence,” he teases; by the end of the sentence he sounds almost normal. “I’m just looking out for your best interests, senpai.”

Shizuo coughs a laugh. “Liar,” he says. His arm bumps Izaya’s shoulder again. “You never think about anyone but yourself.”

Izaya smiles, and it comes easy enough that he dares to look up at Shizuo, to see the tug of a grin that is threatening the corner of the other’s mouth. “My god,” he drawls, and it sounds the way he intends it to, pulled long and taunting in the back of his throat. “Is that _learning_ you’re demonstrating? Next thing you know the sun will rise in the west.”

“Oh, shut up,” Shizuo tells him, and Izaya laughs even before Shizuo’s hand closes on his shoulder to shove him almost-gently across the sidewalk.


	28. Screen

Shinra and Kadota are waiting on the rooftop when Izaya makes it out of class.

“Izaya-kun!” Shinra shouts from their usual spot by the juncture of the wall and the fence outlining the rooftop, swinging his arm as if Izaya might not know where to go without the guidance. “Over here!”

“Yo,” Kadota offers with far more calm as Izaya approaches, stepping over the lunches spread out in front of the other two to claim his favorite position in the far corner where the sunlight and shade blur together. “Where’s Heiwajima today?”

“He had an assignment to finish,” Izaya tells him without looking up. He’s distracted by the process of retrieving his phone from his pocket and unlocking the screen to open up the list of forum posts he was last going through. “He said he’d meet us as soon as he was done.”

“You always know everything,” Shinra says, sounding more like it’s a simple statement of fact than a compliment.

“At least about Heiwajima,” Kadota puts in, but when Izaya glances up sharply Kadota’s looking at his phone instead of his face, and there’s no trace of suspicious focus in the dark of his eyes, just vague interest. “What’s going on?”

“All sorts of things,” Izaya says with a little more bite on the words than he would usually have. “Would you prefer the update on world affairs or the latest gossip from Class 1-B?”

Shinra laughs, as bright and delighted as if Izaya’s putting on a show for his personal appreciation. “I heard that someone was going to get a confession soon!”

“You mean Sasaki-chan,” Izaya smirks at him. “That’s old news, Dotachin rejected her two days ago.”

“Really?” Shinra looks at Kadota, blinking vague confusion in the other’s direction. “I thought you liked Sasaki.”

Kadota shrugs. “She’s sweet,” he says. “Not my type, though.”

“No,” Izaya purrs. “Dotachin has a taste for older women, don’t you?”

That brings Kadota’s head swinging around, blows his eyes wide on shock for a moment before he can compose himself. Shinra is looking at Izaya, surprised at the apparent non-sequitur, but Izaya’s watching Kadota, grinning at the reaction that is as good as a confession for his purposes. But “Don’t call me that,” is all he says, and Izaya laughs and lets the subject drop.

“There is a letter circulating, though,” he allows. “Not for Dotachin, this time.”

Kadota rolls his eyes. “You get confessions every week, Orihara, you don’t need to rub it in our face all the time.”

“It’s not for me,” Izaya smiles. “Try again, Dotachin.”

Kadota’s eyebrows raise. “Does Heiwajima have an admirer?”

Izaya can feel his expression crack. For a moment his composure shatters, gone as instantly as he had broken past Kadota’s with a reference to the other’s crush on his homeroom teacher; his heart hammers in his chest, seeking freedom from the weight of numbing alarm that comes with the casual words.

“What?” he says, and he sounds strangled, sounds compromised; he has to force himself into a more normal range. Izaya reaches for a laugh; it comes out shrill and sharp-edged, but at least it comes out, and the familiar purr of the sound in his chest eases the worst of the strain. “Who have you been talking to, Dotachin, is there someone who has a fetish for monsters now?”

“I haven’t been talking to anyone,” Kadota says evenly. “You said someone’s going to get a confession soon, and it’s not me or you. Is it not Heiwajima either?”

“He’s not the only other option,” Izaya drawls, attaining something like his usual tone in spite of the frantic pace his heart is setting in his chest. He can see Kadota’s expression clear into understanding but he still tips his head towards Shinra, blinks himself into a smirk while he waits for the other to look up from his lunch.

It takes a while. Shinra’s in the middle of a bite, working through the pattern of “I <3 Celty” laid out over his rice by what Izaya is very sure were his own hands the night before. It’s not until the conversation has been quiet for nearly a minute that the silence gains Shinra’s attention and brings his head up to blink innocence at both Kadota and Izaya.

“What?” he says, as utterly unsuspicious as if he had missed the last several seconds of conversation. “Why are you looking at me?”

“You’re going to get a confession,” Kadota tells him while Izaya is still grinning.

“What?” Shinra laughs. “But I’m already in love, everyone knows that!”

“Apparently it’s not enough to stop some of the first-years,” Izaya informs him. “This one’s been pining for you for a few weeks. Let her down as easily as you can.”

“Who is it?” Kadota asks, curiosity bringing his attention back from Shinra to Izaya’s lounge against the wall, but Izaya shakes his head and looks back to his phone.

“Not telling,” he says. “She deserves to surprise you at least with her identity if not her confession.”

“You don’t care what she deserves,” Kadota tells him, and Izaya smiles down at his phone without looking up.

“I don’t,” he admits. “But it’ll be more fun this way for me.”

“Heiwajima’s right,” Kadota says while Shinra is wailing incoherent protest to this conclusion and Izaya is grinning down at his phone screen without seeing the posts on the display. “You _are_ a brat.”

“What am I right about?”

Izaya’s head comes up immediately. Shizuo’s standing in the gap between Kadota and Shinra, the midday sunlight catching at his face and turning his hair to gold. He’s a little bit breathless from the climb up the stairs; he must have taken them two at a time rather than lingering over a more sedate ascent. Shizuo looks to Kadota, to Shinra still offering unformed protest, to Izaya and the smirk still clinging to his mouth, and then Kadota says “Your kouhai is a brat,” and Shizuo’s expression cracks into a sudden lopsided grin.

“That’s what I keep saying,” he says, and steps over Kadota and Shinra to the corner Izaya is monopolizing. He doesn’t even ask the other to move, just reaches out to push at his shoulder and slide him bodily sideways; Izaya ends up in the colder shadow cast by the building, losing the comfortable heat of the sunlight, but he doesn’t protest as Shizuo drops to sit so close to him their elbows are nearly touching. “I should never have gotten mixed up with him in the first place.”

“You’re stuck with me now,” Izaya tells him, snapping his phone shut and fitting it back into the pocket of his jacket. “You’ll never be rid of me, senpai.”

Shizuo shoves at Izaya’s hair while still grinning, his fingers rumpling the locks out-of-order more than the wind has yet managed. “I know I made a mistake,” he growls. “No need to rub it in.”

“What kind of a brat would I be if I didn’t?” Izaya teases, and Shizuo rolls his eyes and shoves a lunchbox into his hands in place of the phone he had been checking.

Izaya doesn’t look back at the screen all lunch.


	29. Lying

“This isn’t the way home,” Shizuo informs Izaya as they turn onto streets made familiar with years of experience. “Where are we going?”

“Is it not?” Izaya asks, cutting a grin sideways to meet the dark of Shizuo’s gaze. “Shocking, that after all these years I still can’t remember where you live.” Shizuo takes an easy swing at him and Izaya ducks under the motion of the other’s arm with a laugh he doesn’t even try to repress. “I need to stop by my house,” he says as he straightens. “Then you can remind me of how to get to yours.”

“Brat,” Shizuo tells him without even a growl on the word. “What do you need to go home for? We’re having dinner at my place, I told you.”

“You did,” Izaya allows. “This afternoon, actually. You’re lucky I didn’t already have Christmas plans, senpai, or you would be left all alone tonight. It would serve you right for waiting to ask until so late.”

Shizuo does frown at that. “Izaya-kun…”

“I have to check on my sisters,” Izaya says, fast enough to cut off whatever Shizuo might have been planning to say. “They’re expecting me home tonight and I want to make sure they’re not out with a harem, at least not until later in the evening.”

Shizuo’s forehead creases. “Izaya-kun.”

“Mm?”

“How old are your sisters now?”

Izaya touches a hand to his heart. “I can’t believe you’ve forgotten so soon, Shizuo-senpai, does my devotion mean nothing to you?”

That gets him an eyeroll. “Don’t be a brat.”

Izaya drops his hand and skips ahead by a pair of steps. “They’re seven. Eight in February.”

“They’re _kids_ ,” Shizuo sighs. “They’re not going to have _boyfriends_ yet.”

“Don’t underestimate Oriharas,” Izaya tells him, looking back over his shoulder at Shizuo trailing in his wake. “My sisters are extremely precocious.”

“Uh huh.” Shizuo sounds unconvinced, but he’s starting to smile, the corner of his mouth is turning up into amusement he’s not trying particularly hard to repress. “Fine. We’ll check on your precocious sisters before going back to my place for dinner.”

“You should be careful,” Izaya teases, turning to pace backwards down the sidewalk so he can grin at Shizuo. “They might try to seduce you if you don’t have your guard up.”

Another eyeroll. “I think I can handle myself against a pair of seven-year-old girls,” Shizuo says. “Don’t do that, you’ll walk into someone.”

Izaya laughs. “As you command, senpai,” he drawls, but he does turn back around and slows his pace so Shizuo’s longer strides catches him up. It’s only for the rest of the block, anyway; Izaya takes the turn past his front gate as a pivot, darts up to the front door while Shizuo is still trailing him towards the entrance, and he has the door unlocked and open before the other has caught back up to him.

“Mairu,” Izaya calls down the darkened quiet of the hallway. “Kururi. You haven’t murdered anyone, have you?”

“Iza-nii’s home,” a voice murmurs, almost too softly to hear, and then another voice, louder, “We wouldn’t tell you if we had!”

“Good,” Izaya shouts back. Shizuo’s watching him with a raised eyebrow when he looks back towards the door; Izaya flashes a smirk and toes his shoes off in the entryway, though he leaves the weight of his jacket around his shoulders. “I’ll just be a minute,” he tells Shizuo, and moves down the hallway while the other boy is still scowling uncertainty about whether to follow or not.

Mairu and Kururi are where Izaya expected to find them, tangled together on the living room couch with the television as the only source of illumination. Mairu’s holding a game controller while Kururi looks through the pages of the game manual; with the faint light from the TV screen and their near-identical expressions of focus, it would be impossible to tell them apart except for the braid weighting over Mairu’s shoulder.

“Hi sisters,” Izaya says from the doorway without stepping into the room or turning the light on. “I’m going out tonight and won’t be back until late. You two can make yourselves dinner, right?”

“Sure,” Mairu says without looking away from the television screen. “We’ll walk down to the convenience store and buy some bread.”

“Good,” Izaya says, ready to make his retreat back down the hallway while Shizuo is still working his shoes off in the entryway. “I’ll see you later.”

It’s Kururi who speaks, offering words in such a soft range Izaya has to strain to hear her. “Isn’t it Christmas?”

Izaya doesn’t let his expression so much as flicker. “Have you learned the days of the year that well already?” he says instead, tuning his voice so near to laughter it’s more mocking than actual amusement would be. “I’m so proud of you, your teachers must be thrilled.” But Mairu has looked away from the television to blink at him, and Kururi is letting the booklet in her hands tip down from her gaze, and neither of the dark stares fixed on Izaya blink at the smirk he’s wearing.

“You’re going out on Christmas,” Mairu says, repeating the words in the alignment that makes them the suggestion they are. “Do you have a girlfriend, Iza-nii?”

Izaya laughs. “As if I would have a girlfriend and not tell my favorite sisters,” he drawls.

“You’re going out,” Kururi repeats, a fainter echo of Mairu’s statement, and Mairu catches the trailing end of the sentence: “Who are you going out with?”

“What the hell are you doing?” Shizuo demands as he comes down the hallway, his voice loud enough to carry clearly even before he’s in sight of the twins. “I thought you said it would only take a minute.”

“Oh,” Mairu says.

“Shizu-nii,” Kururi says.

“Just dealing with my sisters,” Izaya says, turning away from the doorway as Shizuo steps into it with him and squints into the dim lighting. “We’re just finishing.”

“Are you going out with Iza-nii for Christmas?” Mairu asks.

Shizuo frowns. “Yeah,” he says without a trace of suspicion audible in his voice. “He’s coming over for dinner.”

“By himself?” Kururi asks.

“Yeah,” Shizuo says. Izaya can see him starting to color, his cheeks going darker as he catches up to the implication of the question. “Shinra’s with Celty and Kadota--”

“Had a date,” Izaya finishes for him, looking away from the uncomfortable blush cresting across Shizuo’s face as he adopts a deliberately blasé tone. “Like I do, with my _boyfriend_.” He grabs Shizuo’s elbow and shoves him back towards the door. “Have fun. _We_ definitely will.”

“Don’t do anything we wouldn’t do!” Mairu calls, but Izaya’s already halfway down the hall, pushing Shizuo in front of him as they retreat to the entryway.

“ _Izaya-kun_ ,” Shizuo hisses in what he probably intends as an undertone as Izaya reaches for his shoes, ducking down to take far more care than he usually does in putting them on. The angle tips his hair forward around his face to cover the heat he can feel burning across all his skin. “ _What_...you…”

“They would have said it in a minute themselves,” Izaya says to his shoes. His hands are shaking very slightly on the laces; he can’t tell if his voice is normal, his pulse is pounding echoingly loud in his ears and swamping all his hearing. “I just beat them to it.”

“But.” Shizuo’s still standing in the hallway, still looking down at Izaya; Izaya can feel the weight of his stare, can hear the tremor of confusion and the heat of embarrassment clinging to Shizuo’s voice. “But we’re _not_.”

There’s almost a question at the end, almost an upswing of sound in the back of Shizuo’s voice. Izaya ties his second shoe, takes a deep breath of air; it helps, steadies his hand and clears his throat, and if there’s still a pressure aching against the inside of his chest it’s hardly something he hasn’t felt before. He turns his head up and shakes his hair back from his face so he can flash the dig of a grin up at Shizuo.

“Come on, Shizuo-senpai,” he drawls in his very best teasing purr. “Haven’t you ever lied before?”

The expression that flickers across Shizuo’s face is hard to read; it goes by too fast for Izaya to track, and it’s almost completely eclipsed by the crimson embarrassment still hot under the other’s skin. But it looks like relief, or something very close to it, and Izaya lets his grin stretch wider as his chest aches agony along his spine.

“You should really try it more often,” he says, looking back down as he pushes himself to his feet. “It gets easier with practice.”


	30. Weapon

Izaya isn’t watching where he’s going. Crowds are interesting seen from a distance, but when he’s actually maneuvering his way through the downtown rush it’s more exhausting than anything else to try to pay attention to what’s happening around him. Easier to duck his head to the movement and focus on the far more manageable scope of his cell phone, to read the new forum posts as they scroll across the screen with each update.

He doesn’t see the pair coming. It wouldn’t make a difference, really -- he wouldn’t recognize them even if he saw them streets away -- but it’s because his head is down that he doesn’t see the way they’re watching him and doesn’t get even a moment of warning before he runs into the wall one of them is making with his body in the middle of the sidewalk. The impact is hard enough to send Izaya stumbling back by a handful of inches while he catches his balance, and he’s just looking up to scowl at the interruption when a voice growls, “You really oughta watch where you’re going, _Orihara_.”

That gets Izaya’s full attention, if the pair of glares directed at him or the ache of impact in his shoulder weren’t enough to do the trick. He straightens his shoulders, slides his phone back into his pocket without looking at what he was doing -- he can catch up later, this is immediately important -- and leaves his hand inside the cover of his jacket as he musters a grin to match the consideration he’s giving the pair of boys in front of him.

“Hello there,” he drawls, attaining the illusion of a casual tone while he takes in their appearance. Broad shoulders say they’re intended as a threat, plain jackets without any distinctive color say they’re going incognito, and the glares they’re giving him say they know who he is, even if Izaya’s very sure he’s never met either of these two before. “Something I can help you with?”

“Sure can,” one, the more coherent of the pair, growls, and the other reaches out to grab at Izaya’s shoulder. Izaya’s hoping he’ll make the mistake of fisting at the jacket instead of his arm to give him the option to duck out of the clothing if escape becomes necessary, but the fingers close hard against the line of his arm and remove the possibility as rapidly as Izaya is shoved towards the relative cover of a sidestreet. There are still people wandering along the sidewalk here too, but they cut wide as Izaya and his pair of escorts turn along the street, leaving a clear space for the trio as Izaya’s keeper shoves him against the wall and lets his arm go to fall into place shoulder-to-shoulder with his partner.

“My apologies, gentlemen,” Izaya says, purring the words so they come out amused more than concerned. His hand is still in his pocket; he doesn’t need to see the screen of his phone to tap out the brief message to a memorized number. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of making your acquaintance before.”

“Not us,” the talkative one tells him. He’s grinning now, clearly under the impression the pair of them have the upper hand. “Our mutual friend is the one you’ve met.”

Izaya raises an eyebrow, slouches against the wall behind him as if he’s perfectly calm, as if the frantic heat of adrenaline isn’t uncoiling into his veins. “Is there a name connected with your associate, or should I start making guesses?”

“He said you wouldn’t remember.” The other takes a step in closer, close enough that Izaya has to tilt his head back just to keep eye contact. He’s bigger than most of Izaya’s classmates; maybe a few years older, from what Izaya can guess from the set lines of his face. Not a high school grudge, then, but not with the yakuza either, with the complete lack of subtlety being demonstrated. “Funny, really, since you’re so fast to sell information on what you _do_ know.”

Izaya grins. “Information is there to be sold,” he tells them. His phone isn’t buzzing against the grip he has on it; that might mean his message didn’t go through, or it might mean the recipient didn’t bother to waste the time to respond. If it’s the second, he might be in more luck than he anticipated. “The best way to keep a secret is to not tell anyone.”

“Yeah,” the other agrees, sounding calm in a deliberately dangerous way. “So now that _you_ know this information, what d’you think we should do?”

“I--” Izaya starts, but his sentence and his focus cut off abruptly at the impact of a fist with the side of his head. The one standing in front of him hasn’t moved at all; the punch came from the other, the quiet one. Izaya should have known better than to forget about him. For a minute he’s left leaning hard against the wall, his eyes wide and mouth open on the first rush of shock; then the numb of the first impact eases and Izaya’s thoughts white out in a blinding wave of hurt.

“Boss wanted to take you out of the equation.” The voice is echoing in Izaya’s ears; it’s hard to hear past the panic echoing his thoughts to white noise. “We told him you could be persuaded to see reason.” There’s another impact, this one to Izaya’s stomach; the wall at his back makes it worse, turns what would have been just a painful ache into agony as he’s caught between the immoveable surface and the weight of the other’s swing. Izaya’s knees give way, his weight collapsing against the support of the alley wall, and when he starts to lose his balance he lets himself tip sideways, falls boneless and heavy with the illusion of unconsciousness for the benefit of his audience. His head is aching, his stomach twisting on the nausea of pain, but he keeps his eyes shut, tries to let his face fall slack instead of crumpling into the hurt he can feel rushing over his attention with every beat of his heart.

“He really _is_ fragile,” the talkative one says. There’s a kick against Izaya’s ribs; air rushes out of his lungs in an involuntary gasp, but he bites back the groan of hurt that threatens his throat, tries to lie as motionless as he can. “You barely hit him and he went down.”

“Izumii said he would be.” It’s an unfamiliar voice, slower and a little higher than the other; that must be the quiet one, speaking only now that Izaya’s apparently passed out. “He didn’t even try to fight back.”

“Just makes our job easier.” There’s a pause, a moment while Izaya lies still and displays the best impression of _nonthreatening_ that he can manage. “Is that enough? He’s out cold.”

“He’s only got some bruises right now,” the second voice says, and Izaya can hear the thrum of violence under it, recognizes the rumbling purr of anticipation below the words. “We should break his leg.”

“Give him some time to think about what he’s going to do while he’s recovering,” the first says with so much appreciation in his voice that it’s as good as agreement. Izaya wonders if he can stay quiet through the pain of a bone breaking. “I like the way you think.”

“Let’s--”

The voice cuts off abruptly, giving way to a _smack_ so loud it makes Izaya jump in spite of his best attempts to stay still. There’s a shout, sudden panic echoing off the walls of the alley, and then a growl in a voice so familiar the tension eases out of Izaya’s shoulders even before he’s opened his eyes. One of the two strangers is down, clutching a hand to his face like the pressure will stem the rush of blood from what must be a broken nose; the other is stumbling back in an attempt for a better angle for a fight, his eyes wide on shock as Shizuo steps in towards him. The stranger is bigger, carrying the weight of a full-grown adult that Shizuo hasn’t quite attained yet, but he hasn’t yet found his footing when Shizuo swings a fist and catches his knuckles against the other’s jaw with a _crunch_ Izaya can feel jolt sympathetic resonance all the way down his spine. There’s a burst of blood, the stranger goes staggering backwards with a wail of pain, and Shizuo’s other hand comes up to clip his temple hard enough to shove the other backwards and off his feet. He goes down hard, with the unresisting collapse that says he was unconscious before he hit the ground, and Shizuo turns to Izaya without waiting to see him land, his expression stormcloud-dark on adrenaline Izaya can’t see the source of. He steps in, drops to a knee, and when he reaches out Izaya has the brief, insane thought that Shizuo’s going to hit him too, that the anger turning his features into that shadowed-over viciousness is going to spill out to encompass him by default. It makes the gentle press of fingers against his swelling cheek the more startling, enough so that Izaya jolts as if he’s been shocked at the heat of Shizuo’s touch against his jaw.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Shizuo growls, a weird low resonance on his voice that Izaya’s never heard before, like his throat is closing up on itself. “What did they do to you?”

Izaya has to fight for stability on his voice, has to drag the tattered edges of composure back around himself to manage his usual tone. It’s hard, with Shizuo’s fingers pressing against a rising bruise and sending tremors of pain surging down Izaya’s spine with every breath he takes.

“Tried to shut me up,” he finally says, and if his voice is strained at least he has the excuse of the hurt radiating out through his body from the bruise across his stomach to blame. “You arrived just in time, senpai, they were talking about breaking my leg next.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Shizuo spits, and he’s twisting away, pivoting on a heel towards the two bleeding behind him like he’s ready to put his fist through bone just for the sake of having something to do.

“ _Don’t_ ,” Izaya grates, and reaches without thinking to close his fingers at Shizuo’s wrist. He can feel the tendons in the other’s arm flexing with intention under his hold, giving shape to the fist Shizuo is making of his hand, and Izaya’s not exerting nearly enough force to hold the other back but Shizuo hesitates anyway, turning back to fix that weird dark-hazed glare on the other’s face again.

“Why _not_?” Shizuo demands, sounding as furious as if Izaya is one of his enemies, as if the wrong answer might bring the weight of his knuckles slamming against Izaya’s face or his fingers crushing around Izaya’s wrist.

“Because,” Izaya starts, struggling for logic he can give other than _it’s over_ , other than _it won’t matter_ , other than _you came to save me_ and the painful pressure building against the inside of his chest at that awareness. He manages a smile, tightens his hold on Shizuo’s wrist; the pressure makes Shizuo hiss himself into distraction, eases the vicious weight of his fist a little, and by the time he’s focused on the other’s face again Izaya’s found the words he needs.

“You’d get yourself brought in by the police if you murdered them, senpai,” he says, and he sounds almost ordinary, except for the breathless hiss at the end of the words from another wave of pain from his stomach. “They’re working for someone else, anyway.”

Shizuo twists back towards Izaya, pushing in close as he grabs at the other’s shoulder. His grip hurts almost as much as the bruise at Izaya’s cheek, but Izaya doesn’t so much as flinch. “ _Who_? Who are they working for, I’ll _kill_ them.”

“I’m not going to tell you,” Izaya says, his heart racing doubletime in his chest and his breathing coming so hard he’s sure Shizuo would notice if he weren’t so focused on the question. “You can’t get rid of everyone who has a grudge against me, and it’s stupid to try.”

“This isn’t a _grudge_ ,” Shizuo tells him. He shakes at the other’s shoulder; the motion knocks Izaya back against the wall hard enough that he can feel the burst of pain all through the back of his head, but he doesn’t react except to let his smile drag wider and hotter on his lips. “They were going to _kill_ you.”

“And you stopped them,” Izaya tells him. “I’ve told you, senpai, I need a bodyguard.”

Shizuo’s frown is deepening, his expression going darker on frustration; but his eyes are clearing, some of the uncontrolled adrenaline easing itself back out of his veins, some of the panic in his face reorienting itself into the more typical range of concern. “I can’t be with you all the time, Izaya-kun.”

Izaya lets his hold on Shizuo’s wrist go, braces his hand against the pavement. When he pushes himself to his feet Shizuo’s hold on his shoulder falls away, the other’s hold so loose Izaya can shake it off without effort. He’s left standing over Shizuo, willing his legs not to shake, willing his mouth to smile, willing the memory of Shizuo’s hand against his cheek to retreat into the depths of his mind so he can strip the heat out of his voice.

“I keep saying it.” Shizuo gets to his feet, unfolding himself into the advantage of height with no visible effort. His knuckles are bloody, sticky with red from the two attackers still groaning on the street; other than that he doesn’t even look bruised from his brief fight. Izaya stares at the color on Shizuo’s hands, feels the throb of bruises rising against his cheek and along his ribs, and closes his hand on the phone in his pocket, on the text message he sent to summon Shizuo to him. “I really need a weapon.”


	31. Bruise

“Your face looks better,” Shizuo informs Izaya as he follows him up the stairs to his bedroom. “Did anyone in your class ask about it?”

“Oh yes.” Izaya pushes the door open and takes the lead into the room; he has a shogi board open with a half-played game on it, but he pushes it aside with his foot to make space for the two of them to sit on the floor with their schoolbags. “I told them I got into a lover’s quarrel with my abusive boyfriend.”

“You did not,” Shizuo tells him, sounding very nearly certain of himself and only slightly concerned.

Izaya grins without looking back to see the crease of worry against Shizuo’s forehead. “You’re getting better at that,” he says, dropping to his knees and turning to sit on the floor so he can tilt his head back and smile up at Shizuo. “I won’t be able to lie about anything to you if you keep calling my bluff.”

“Sure you won’t,” Shizuo says, sounding ultimately skeptical as he follows Izaya’s example and shifts so he can lean back against the edge of the bed. “You already lie about everything all the time, it’s not that hard to guess when you’re fucking with me.”

“Unless I start telling the truth,” Izaya points out. He kicks a foot out to knock the weight of his heel against Shizuo’s hip. “You’d never figure it out, then.”

Shizuo catches his ankle in one hand. “You wouldn’t,” he says, pushing Izaya’s foot sideways to land against his calf instead of his thigh. “I don’t think you even remember what truth _is_ anymore.”

“Maybe not,” Izaya allows. “It’s more fun this way, though, isn’t it?”

Shizuo’s mouth quirks into a smile for just a moment, his eyes going soft on amusement as he meets Izaya’s grin. “For _you_ ,” he says, but the words don’t have any more bite than his usual low rumble, and when he reaches out to push at Izaya’s leg it’s with almost-affectionate gentleness rather than the force that would indicate an actual desire for the other to move. Izaya grins wider, kicks a second leg out to join the first, and Shizuo rolls his eyes but doesn’t tell him to move. They’re both quiet for a moment, Izaya balancing his feet against Shizuo’s calves as Shizuo stares idly at his knees, as Izaya watches amusement fade into serious consideration across his expression.

“Seriously,” Shizuo says finally, reaching out to touch Izaya’s ankle to still the idle motion of the other’s feet. When he looks up his eyes are dark under his hair, his smile entirely eclipsed by the tension of concern against his lips. “How bad is it?”

“You worry too much,” Izaya tells him. “It’s just bruises.”

Shizuo’s gaze flickers out to the side of his face, lingers against the dark Izaya knows is still there, against the purple bruise of a black eye fading into unpleasant yellow and green against the dark of his hairline. Shizuo’s mouth tightens, threatens a frown. “That wasn’t all they did.”

Izaya huffs resignation and reaches for the front of his jacket. “It’s _fine_ ,” he insists, slipping the button free of the fabric one-handed as Shizuo’s attention flickers back to his eyes and the determined smirk Izaya is holding at his lips. “Want to see?” He doesn’t wait for an answer before curling his fingers under the edge of his shirt and tugging it up across his chest to bare the flat of his stomach and the bottom inches of his ribs for Shizuo’s consideration.

Izaya can feel the chill of the room ghost against his bare skin for a heartbeat, but then Shizuo’s gaze drops, and Shizuo’s breath hisses into sympathetic hurt, and all of Izaya’s blood goes suddenly hot in his veins as Shizuo twists in and reaches out towards him. He wants to flinch away from the contact, wants to drop his shirt and hide behind the cover of his clothes again, but the action would be too much of a giveaway after his teasing suggestion in the first place, and his hesitation locks him in place long enough for Shizuo’s fingers to land against his skin.

It’s only Izaya’s speed in closing his mouth that keeps back the sound that tries to break free of his chest. It’s too low, he knows, too resonant in his throat to even begin to pass for the pain he should be feeling, for the pain he _is_ feeling as Shizuo’s palm presses to the agonizingly tender bruises from the punch and the kick that left him trembling against the sidewalk. He can feel the ache run all up his spine like fire unfolding itself into a blaze, can feel his body tensing in reflexive defense against the sensation of Shizuo’s touch against him, but Shizuo’s not looking at his face, and Shizuo doesn’t see the first moment of unstudied reaction that turns Izaya’s expression melting-hot before he can restrain it.

“This looks _awful_ ,” Shizuo growls, his words turning over on the rough edge of concern until he sounds almost angry instead of worried. “You didn’t tell me it was this bad.”

“It’s just bruises,” Izaya manages. He doesn’t volunteer that Shizuo’s touch is burning more damage through him than the strangers’ fists or feet ever could, doesn’t point out that the vivid reds and purples outlining his ribs will fade with time while he’s not sure he’ll ever rid himself of the memory of Shizuo’s skin heavy and hot against his. “Nothing’s broken, it’s just sore.”

“You shouldn’t even be at school,” Shizuo tells him. “How are you _walking_ with this?”

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Izaya lies. “It’s fine, senpai, you’ve had worse without even noticing you were hurt.”

“Don’t change the subject,” Shizuo snaps, and then he looks up and Izaya can feel electricity run all down his spine like the sensation is trickling from his scalp all across his body. Shizuo’s closer than Izaya expected; from this near Izaya can see the catch of his lashes against each other and an edge of chapped skin against his lips. Izaya’s whole spine is tense, his body trying to angle itself backwards and away from the contact of Shizuo’s skin on his, but he can’t actually get himself to move; he’s locked in place by the electricity running through him in place of blood, unable to take a full breath for how hard his heart is beating. Shizuo’s glaring at him, his eyes dark with intensity, and then he blinks, and Izaya can see the shadows flicker into softness for a moment, can see Shizuo’s attention slide away from his gaze and down to the fixed line Izaya is making of his mouth. Shizuo takes a breath, opens his mouth to say something -- and there’s a gasp from the doorway, a high voice chirping “Iza-nii!” in gleeful delight from the doorway.

Shizuo jumps, his attention startling away as he looks back over his shoulder towards the pair of small girls outlined in the doorframe. Izaya doesn’t. He shuts his eyes for a moment, breathes out an exhale of relief, and lets his shirt drop from his hold as Shizuo says, “ _Mairu_ ,” in tones of absolute shock.

“Hi there Shizu-nii,” Mairu says, coming through the doorway without any hesitation and leading Kururi in her wake. “Are you corrupting our brother?”

“What?” Shizuo says, sounding so incredibly strained it undermines any claim he might have made to innocence. “ _No_. What--” and then he looks back, and Izaya can see realization flicker crimson across his cheeks before he snatches his hand away from where it was lingering at Izaya’s side. “ _No_ , he was just--”

“You interrupted my seduction,” Izaya drawls, retreating to the familiarity of teasing and the ease of forming the airy lightness of lies on his tongue. “Come on, do you want your big brother to die a virgin?”

“You should have shut the door if you wanted privacy,” Mairu informs him, sounding completely unimpressed. “You don’t have to stop. Keep doing what you were doing.”

“We weren’t doing _anything_ ,” Shizuo insists. Izaya can see the red staining all his features, now, even though the other is glaring at the twins instead of looking back to meet Izaya’s gaze. “You shouldn’t be thinking about that kind of thing anyway, at your age.”

“ _You_ should be,” Mairu informs him. “Why haven’t you taken Iza-nii to a love hotel or something yet?”

“We are _not dating_ ,” Shizuo protests, looking more flustered by a pair of eight-year-old girls than Izaya has seen him while facing down a dozen members of one of the city gangs.

“Get out of my room,” Izaya tells his sisters. “And shut the door on the way out, I don’t want to see you for an hour at least.”

“Aww,” Mairu protests as Kururi takes her hand and tugs her in the direction of the door. “But we’re _hungry_.”

“I’ll make dinner later,” Izaya insists. “Get out and leave us alone.”

“Fine,” Mairu allows as Kururi tugs her past the doorframe. “Don’t have too much fun without us.” And she’s gone, tugging the door shut behind her before Izaya can come up with a good enough comeback to toss after her.

They’re both silent for a long moment after the door shuts. Finally Shizuo’s the one to speak, clearing his throat hard as he turns his head towards Izaya without looking up. “Sorry.”

Izaya lets his eyebrows raise, lets his mouth quirk into a smirk. “Are you taking responsibility for my sisters now?” he asks. Shizuo looks up at him and Izaya tilts his head to the side, lets his smile drag wider against his mouth. “By all means, take them home if you want to play big brother, they’re far more of a pain than they’re worth.” He looks away, reaches out for the pushed-aside shogi board. “Let’s play a game before we go and find some food for them.”

Shizuo frowns, looks up at Izaya; Izaya can see the other’s attention in his periphery but doesn’t look away from the board to meet his gaze.

“Izaya-kun.” Low, quiet, as if Shizuo’s speaking to be unheard by nonexistent eavesdroppers. “Are you sure you’re fine?”

Izaya takes a breath. The inhale strains against the bruise over his ribcage, aches dully up the length of his spine, but it does nothing at all for the fire in his blood or the imprint of Shizuo’s fingers he can still feel like a brand against his side.

“Absolutely, senpai,” he says, and looks up with a grin deliberately crafted to be as manic as he can manage. “I’m tougher than I look.” Shizuo huffs half a smile and looks back down to the shogi board, reaching out to take a handful of pieces and set them up on his side, and Izaya pointedly avoids staring at the shift of his fingers as he moves.

He can feel Shizuo’s fingerprints on him with every inhale he takes.


	32. Names

“I’m just being honest,” Izaya says from the edge of the fountain, kicking his bare feet through the water so he splashes a wave in the general direction of Shizuo’s rolled-up jeans. “ _No one_ bites popsicles, senpai.”

“They do,” Shizuo protests. “It’s not just me, don’t be ridiculous.”

“It _is_ unusual,” Shinra offers from where he’s wading in the middle of the fountain, careless of the way the white lab coat he’s taken to wearing in spite of the heat of summer break is catching damp against the water. “None of _us_ eat popsicles like that.”

“What else are you supposed to do?” Shizuo snaps. “They melt off the stick if you take too long with them.”

“It hurts to bite into them,” Izaya tells him. He swings his leg back for another kick through the water but Shizuo matches him this time, angles his knee wide to bump at Izaya’s and stall his motion before he can get the wave he’s looking for.

“It doesn’t,” Shizuo tells him.

“It does,” Izaya insists. “It aches against your teeth and in the back of your head. Do you not feel that anymore than you feel broken bones?”

“It’s not _that_ weird,” Kadota puts in from Shizuo’s far side. He still has his shoes on, is facing the other direction on the lip of the fountain so his feet are on the ground and not in the water. “Togusa bites popsicles too.”

“Your friend is a freak,” Izaya informs him. “My condolences, Dotachin.”

Kadota heaves a resigned sigh. “Don’t call me that.”

“Too late,” Izaya declares. “It fits you too well, you’ll never shake it now.”

Kadota rolls his eyes. “You don’t have a nickname for anyone else. Why are you so hung up on mine?”

“You’re right,” Izaya says, drawling consideration over the words as he looks back at the others. Shinra has turned away to wander closer to the splash of the water; his hair is getting wet, the shoulders of his coat are collecting damp in the spray, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Shizuo is looking at Izaya, dark brows drawn into a crease of suspicion that says he knows what’s coming; it’s enough to make Izaya smile wider, enough to make his throat tense on the ticklish purr of laughter he doesn’t set free. “Maybe I _should_ have a nickname for Shizuo-senpai.”

“No,” Shizuo growls.

Izaya looks away and up to the sky instead, humming consideration as he sucks sweet ice from the end of his popsicle. “Shizu-nii is too familial,” he says to the blue overhead without looking to meet the glare Shizuo is levelling on him. “Shizucchi is too hard to say, isn’t it?” He braces his free hand against the edge of the fountain, lets himself slouch against the support as he cuts his gaze sideways; Shizuo is watching him with as much alarm behind his eyes as if Izaya is a poisonous snake who could strike at any time.

Izaya draws the popsicle free, feels the corner of his mouth tug into a smile as he licks his lips clean. “Simple is best, isn’t it, Shizu-chan?”

“If you call me Shizu-chan I will throw you into this fountain,” Shizuo replies with absolute certainty under the words.

Izaya can taste laughter at the back of his tongue, can feel his grin going too wide, but he doesn’t bother to restrain it. “Don’t you like it?” he asks. “I thought we were friends, Shizu-chan.”

“I’m serious,” Shizuo says, punctuating with a bite of his popsicle. “Call me that again and you’ll regret it.”

“Will I?” Izaya asks. “How can you be sure, Shi--” and a wave of water hits him in the face before he has time to even turn his head to dodge the wet, Shizuo’s hand sweeping the water up towards him in a sudden rush of liquid. Izaya’s laugh tears out of his throat before he means for it to, catching into hysteria at his tongue, and then he shakes the water out of his eyes to see Shizuo grinning at him, his eyes dark on amusement and his hair glowing in the sunlight.

“What the fuck’s wrong with my _name_?” he asks. “You always make things more complicated than they need to be, Izaya.”

Izaya’s smile doesn’t tremble, his eyelashes don’t flicker. He barely even moves, except to transfer his popsicle to his other hand so he can reach down and dip the other into the water of the fountain. “If you insist, _Shizuo_ ” and he’s splashing towards Shizuo’s face, slowly enough that the other has plenty of time to duck his head out of the way of a direct hit from the water. The droplets catch on his hair instead, collect into points of mirror-bright sunlight at the ends of the strands, and then Shizuo looks back and his grin has gone sharp at the corners, the bright edge of it enough to warn Izaya to twist away as Shizuo kicks a wave in his direction. It breaks against his knees, dampening the bottom inch of his jeans, but Izaya’s laughing when he looks back to see Shizuo’s smile settling into warmth behind the dark of his eyes.

“You’re both ridiculous,” Kadota informs them from the other edge of the fountain. “You’d be drier if you had just gone swimming after all.”

“Whatever,” Shizuo says, tipping back against the edge of the fountain to brace himself on one hand. When he turns his head up to the sunlight the illumination catches into gilt on the damp clinging to his eyelashes, turns the sugar-sticky at his lips bright as he brings his popsicle back to his mouth for another bite. “It’s too hot anyway.”

When he snaps off another inch of the popsicle, Izaya can feel the _crack_ of it hum all through the whole of his body.


	33. Future

“You need to bleach your hair again,” Izaya informs Shizuo from the languid sprawl he has across the other boy’s bed. “Your roots are growing back in.”

“I know,” Shizuo says without looking back at him. He’s leaning in over the table in his room, his head propped up on one hand while he fills out a sheet of questions; with his head tipped forward Izaya can see a thin line of bare skin between the other’s blond hair and the loose collar of his t-shirt. “Not tonight, I need to study for my history test. Want to come over this Sunday?”

“Maybe I already have plans,” Izaya says. He reaches, stretching his fingers out towards that line of skin; for a moment his touch hovers incomplete, stalled out against the half-inch of distance between his fingertips and the back of Shizuo’s neck. “I don’t spend every waking moment with you, you know.”

“Wish you did,” Shizuo says to the tabletop without looking back to see the not-quite-contact of Izaya’s hand and his neck. “At least then you wouldn’t be getting jumped by gang members in back alleys.”

“That was one time,” Izaya reminds him. “And you were there anyway.”

“By chance,” Shizuo points out. “What if I hadn’t been?”

“You make it sound like a death sentence,” Izaya tells him, and crosses the gap between Shizuo and himself diagonally, catching his fingers into pale hair instead of trailing them across the fading tan of summertime still pressed across the back of Shizuo’s neck. Shizuo tenses at the contact, his shoulders hunching as the motion of his pencil stills, but he doesn’t jerk away, and Izaya lets his hand slide farther, digging his fingers into the rumpled weight of Shizuo’s hair as he keeps talking. “I would have gotten a few more kicks, maybe another punch if they felt sadistic.”

Shizuo glances back; it’s not enough to shake off Izaya’s hand, barely enough motion for Izaya to see the shift of Shizuo’s lashes as the other looks at him sideways. “You said they were going to break your leg.”

Izaya shrugs one-shouldered. “Bones heal.”

Shizuo frowns. “You make it sound like it’s no big deal.”

“It’s an occupational hazard.” Izaya twists his fingers into a fist, tugs against Shizuo’s hair until the other hisses protest. “I can take care of myself.”

“Liar,” Shizuo says, but he turns away again, ducking his head into an unspoken invitation for Izaya’s fingers to continue their motion. “You’re going to get yourself stabbed someday and I’ll have to come find you in the hospital.”

“People get stabbed all the time.” Izaya shifts on the bed, turning sideways so he can rest his head on his free arm and fit his fingers against the top of Shizuo’s head to drag sensation across the other’s scalp. “I intend to deserve it.”

Shizuo huffs a laugh. “You’re definitely on the right track for that,” he allows. His shoulders are relaxing, tipping him backwards instead of curling forward over the tabletop; when Izaya tenses his fingers to drag over Shizuo’s part the other’s head comes back completely, his whole body unfolding to lean hard against the edge of the bed instead of focused around the sheet on the table.

Izaya curls his fingers, catching the soft of Shizuo’s hair in his hold. “You’re supposed to be studying for history.”

“You’re distracting me,” Shizuo tells him without turning around. “I can’t focus when you’re doing that.”

Izaya smiles at the back of Shizuo’s head, where the shape of his expression can’t be seen. “You don’t have much focus at all, do you?” He slides his hand sideways, digging in against the suggestion of dark close to Shizuo’s scalp, and Shizuo tilts his head under the force of Izaya’s touch. Izaya can feel the surrender under his fingertips crackle up his arm and settle into humming tension against his spine. “You’ll never get into university with a work ethic like that.”

Shizuo’s laugh is loud, almost a cough more than structured amusement. “Who said I was going to university?” he asks. “I’m going to start working once I graduate high school.”

“Oh?” Izaya says, twisting the question on his tongue so it comes out more teasing than sincere. “And here I thought you were going to become a doctor like Shinra.”

“You are such a liar,” Shizuo tells him, his voice purring into the low rumble of amusement that negates any attempt he might have made at irritation. “Do you even know how to tell the truth anymore?”

“Truth is subjective,” Izaya declares, his grin dragging wide enough that it runs into audibility in his throat. He twists his fingers deeper into Shizuo’s hair. “It all comes down to how you interpret reality.”

“Uh huh,” Shizuo says, sounding patently unconvinced. “And you’re objectively a brat.”

“Sweet talk will get you anything you want from me,” Izaya purrs.

There’s a moment of quiet. Shizuo doesn’t pull away from Izaya’s touch; he’s still leaning back against the edge of the bed, close enough that Izaya could drop his arm around the other’s shoulders if he wanted, could pull him back and curl in around the warmth that always seems to radiate from Shizuo’s skin like captured sunlight. He stays where he is, maintains the gap of inches except for his fingers sliding through Shizuo’s hair and keeps his eyes fixed on the back of Shizuo’s neck, and when there’s a voice it’s Shizuo’s that cuts through the peace.

“What are you going to do?” The words are rough in the other’s throat, dragging into friction at the back of his tongue; Izaya can see tension reforming along Shizuo’s shoulders, can see the easy grace of his position going stiff and awkward with forced casualness. “After graduation.”

“I’m going to keep going to classes, mostly,” Izaya drawls. “I’ll pine for you when I think about it.”

Shizuo swings an arm up over the edge of the bed to jab at Izaya’s leg. “Not _my_ graduation,” he growls while Izaya coughs himself into a laugh and tips back and away from the impact. “You know what I mean.”

“More of what I’ve been doing,” Izaya tells him. Shizuo’s turned back towards him, is glancing over his shoulder so Izaya can only see his face in profile; his eyes are very dark with the angle they’re cutting past his lashes. Izaya doesn’t meet his stare; he looks up instead, reaching to toy with the ends of Shizuo’s hair again with a deliberately easy smile at his mouth. “I have a reputation with the yakuza, now, they rely on me for information.”

“That’s not something to be proud of,” Shizuo tells him, but there’s no sincere anger under the words; he sounds distracted, like he’s still thinking about something else. “You’re not going to go to university, then?”

“Mm,” Izaya hums. He curls his fingers, watches the way Shizuo’s hair parts into waves around the pressure. “No.” He risks a glance back to the other’s face, catches Shizuo’s gaze for a moment while he draws a grin across his lips. “Why, Shizuo, worried I was going to run off to Shinjuku and you’d never see me again?”

“Shut up,” Shizuo says, turning away and hunching his shoulders to make a wall between his expression and Izaya’s gaze. “Good riddance if you did.”

“You’d miss me,” Izaya tells him, a smile breaking onto his face in spite of any attempt he might make to restrain it. “What would you do if you didn’t have me around to worry about all the time?”

“Enjoy my life a lot more, I bet.”

“You wouldn’t,” Izaya says. “You’d be bored, you wouldn’t know what to do with yourself.” He scratches his nails against Shizuo’s scalp again, watches the way the friction unknots tension from the other’s shoulders and lets him sag warm and pliant against the edge of the bed. He can just fit the width of his thumb against the grown-out dark at the end of the strands. “You’d have to bleach your hair yourself.”

“I have to do that anyway,” Shizuo says. “Since you have plans this weekend.”

“I never said I had plans,” Izaya tells him. “I was speaking in hypotheticals. You should learn to listen when people talk, Shizuo.”

“There’s no point with you,” Shizuo says, but he’s completely relaxed against the bed now; when Izaya reaches up to drag through his hair his head tips back until it’s almost resting against the sheets under Izaya. “Not when half of what you say is nonsense anyway.”

Izaya smiles. “You’re getting it now.”

“Sure.” Shizuo sounds unconvinced, but when he moves it’s to tip his head back to look at Izaya instead of pulling away. “Are you coming over on Sunday, then?”

“Hm.” Izaya makes a fist of Shizuo’s hair, pulls it back off the other’s forehead while he twists his mouth into a smirk and angles his head to the side. “I suppose I’ll have to. I can’t let you go around looking like this for any longer than you need to.”

Shizuo’s lips quirk on a smile. “Shut up,” he says, and Izaya grins and shoves blond hair down over Shizuo’s eyes to interrupt his vision. Shizuo growls amused protest and swings up and away to shake his hair out of his face, and Izaya reclaims his hand, lets his arm fall slack over his waist with all the deliberate casualness he can muster.

Appearances notwithstanding, it takes several minutes before the knot in his chest eases enough for him to regain the rhythm of ordinary breathing.


	34. Accord

“You’re not fooling anyone, you know,” Shizuo tells Izaya. “I can see you shivering.”

“I’m fine,” Izaya insists. “I’m not shivering. You’re imagining things.”

“You are such a liar. Did you know your lips are turning blue?”

“They’re not,” Izaya says, catching his lower lip between his teeth so he can suck warmth over it. It still feels like ice, even when he licks hard against the wind-chilled skin. “You’re just making things up now.”

“Don’t be stubborn.” Shizuo collects the empty lunchboxes from between their feet to stack them over the cloth that he used to carry them up to the roof in the first place. “I keep telling you, we can eat lunch inside. It’d be better than getting rained on.”

“It’s not raining,” Izaya says. He tips his head back against the wall behind him, takes a breath of winter-cold air into his lungs, tries to relax the involuntary motion that keeps trembling chill through his shoulders and tensing painfully against the small of his back. “The sun is out, Shizuo, don’t your eyes work right anymore?”

“It’s still cold,” Shizuo informs him. “ _I’m_ cold, I don’t know how you’re not actually dead.”

Izaya huffs a laugh, the amusement warm in his chest even if the motion nearly breaks the deliberate focus holding back his shivering. When he tips his head against the wall Shizuo is looking at him from under the windswept tangle of his hair, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth in spite of his visible effort to fight it back.

“I’m not _actually_ cold-blooded, you know,” Izaya reminds him. “I am capable of taking care of myself in the winter and not dying of hypothermia.”

“Obviously,” Shizuo drawls, sounding spectacularly unconvinced. “That’s why the only coat you ever wear is the one I gave you.”

Izaya shrugs. “It’s comfortable.”

“Sure it is,” Shizuo says, and tips in sideways to bump his shoulder against Izaya’s. “Because it keeps you from _freezing_.”

“I’m wearing a coat right now,” Izaya points out, lifting numb fingers to tug at the edge of his blue uniform jacket. “Anything else is against school regulations, you know.”

“Like you care,” Shizuo says. “You just like making me worry.”

“You have such a talent for it,” Izaya agrees. “I’d hate for you to have nothing to do with your time.” That gets a huff of amusement from Shizuo, draws a smile to Izaya’s lips, and for a moment they fall silent, Shizuo looking out over the rooftop left empty by the winter chill and Izaya concentrating all his attention on repressing the tremors of cold running through him.

“What are you doing for Christmas?” Shizuo finally asks, just as Izaya is attaining something like calm resignation to the absolute cold digging into the line of his spine and chilling his lungs with every breath.

Izaya glances sideways. If Shizuo were looking at him he would smirk, would find some excuse absurd enough for Shizuo to know it for the mockery it is. But Shizuo’s looking up at the sky still, his expression oddly soft in relaxation, and whatever laughter Izaya had ready in his throat fails and dies, unable to hold itself up against the calm in Shizuo’s face.

“Spending it with you,” is what he says instead, sincerity so foreign to his tongue it tastes heavy, like clear water to a palette spoiled by the fizz and bite of soda. “Of course. It’s our last chance before you graduate and leave me behind, after all.”

Shizuo’s smile is as soft as his eyes, dragging slow across his face like a wave breaking on sand, and heat prickles through Izaya’s skin, a shudder he wishes he could blame on sensation abandoning numb fingers and aching legs. “I’m not leaving you behind,” Shizuo says, so calmly it sounds more like a promise than irritation, and then he’s turning his head to meet Izaya’s gaze before the other has a chance to compose his face into his usual teasing smirk. Izaya’s left staring, eyes wide with shock at his sudden audience, and Shizuo’s mouth quirks into a sharp-edged grin that brightens his eyes steel-sharp, that tenses his whole expression into familiar shadows, and Izaya takes a breath as whatever tension was aching in his chest gives way to relief.

“I couldn’t get rid of you if I tried, anyway,” Shizuo tells him, looking away and letting his weight sag sideways against Izaya’s shoulder. “You’d just do something crazy like break into my house in the middle of the night.”

“Please,” Izaya says, dragging his gaze away from Shizuo’s features so he can stare out at the safety of the rooftop in front of them. “If I broke into your house, I wouldn’t be so stupid as to let you know I had done it. Then you’d figure out a way to stop me the next time, and I’d have to find a whole new way in.”

“That’s true,” Shizuo says, as calmly as if they’re talking about their homework assignments; then, with his voice dropping to a growl in the back of his throat, “You _are_ shivering.”

Izaya flinches. “I’m fine,” he says, but Shizuo’s already pulling away, straightening from his slouch against the support of the wall and Izaya’s shoulder. The loss of the contact sends another shudder through Izaya’s body, as if he can feel the absence of what minimal warmth he was getting from Shizuo’s presence; he grits his teeth against the cold, opens his mouth to protest returning to the crowded chatter inside the school, but Shizuo isn’t getting to his feet. He’s unbuttoning his coat instead, shrugging the fabric off his shoulders with as much casual grace as if he doesn’t feel the chill, and then he’s making an offering of the blue, pushing the rumpled coat against Izaya’s chest so hard the impact forces the other back against the wall.

“Put it on,” Shizuo demands.

Izaya doesn’t lift his hands. “I don’t want it.”

“Take it.” Shizuo looks at him sideways without pulling his hand away; his mouth tightens on a frown. “Izaya. Just put it on.”

“I don’t need it,” Izaya insists, even though his skin is aching appreciation for the weight of the extra coat, even though he’s starting to shiver again now that his attention is being dragged to other subjects. “I’m not cold.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Shizuo tells him.

Izaya sets his jaw. “You’re just as cold as me.”

“I’m not.” Shizuo reaches out with his free hand; for a moment Izaya sees the shape of a smack swinging towards him, tenses in expectation of pain. But there’s no impact, just the weight of knuckles pressing to his cheek and Shizuo frowning hard at him. “You feel like ice. Put the coat on.”

Izaya doesn’t move. For a moment the two of them are locked to stillness, Shizuo’s hold shoving his coat against Izaya’s chest and the heat of his hand burning against Izaya’s cheek as Shizuo frowns, and Izaya stares, and neither of them speaks.

Then “Put it on or I’m taking you back inside,” and Izaya knows he’s lost even before his hand comes up of its own accord to catch the weight of the coat from Shizuo’s hold.

“ _Taking_ me?” he asks, drawling the best slur of laughter he can manage with his whole body shaking on cold. The shivering is worse now than it was, the tremors starting to run through his whole body like they’re getting revenge for his early victory over them. Shizuo pulls his hands away, falls back to lean against the wall, and Izaya tugs at the sleeves of Shizuo’s coat, the simple process of pulling it over his shoulders made difficult by the numbness turning his fingers clumsy on motion. “What if I don’t want to go?”

“Then I’d carry you,” Shizuo declares, his shoulders slumping into relaxation against the wall as he watches Izaya struggle into first one and then the other sleeve of the coat. The weight of the fabric is a comfort right away, the double layer of clothing enough to cut the wind as Izaya’s jacket alone didn’t manage, and then there’s the warmth, the radiance of Shizuo’s body clinging to the inside of the cloth to ease the shaking chill that has sunk itself all along the line of Izaya’s spine.

“Oh?” Izaya asks. He drags the edges of Shizuo’s coat closed around his own, feels the lingering heat of the fabric purr comfort through his skin. “By force, then?”

“If I had to,” Shizuo agrees. “I could take you in a fight.”

Izaya leans back against the wall, tips his head sideways to flash a smirk up at Shizuo. “You’d have to catch me first.”

Shizuo laughs as if this idea is absurd. When he moves it’s to reach out sideways and close his hand on the bottom edge of his own jacket around Izaya’s shoulders, to make a fist of the fabric under his fingers. “Like I said,” he drawls. “I could win if it came down to it.”

Izaya considers Shizuo’s hold on the edge of the coat, the tension of his fingers holding to the fabric as if it’s Izaya himself and not just an accessory as easily shed as it was put on. If he wanted, Izaya knows, he could slide free of Shizuo’s coat in a matter of seconds, could probably be halfway across the rooftop before Shizuo got to his feet if he wanted to prove his point.

“Yeah,” is what he says, and leans back against the wall in surrender without slipping free of the weight of Shizuo’s jacket on his shoulders. “I guess you could.”


	35. Cheating

“Really, Shizuo,” Izaya drawls from the other side of the kotatsu he and Shizuo are sharing. “If you had told me it was going to be just us I would have gotten dressed up for the occasion.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo tells him. Izaya is fairly sure that would have been paired with a kick, except that Shizuo already has his leg angled out to rest heavy against Izaya’s hip and he sounds too drowsy on warmth to muster much energy anyway. “You’re not the only one I invited. Everyone else had plans.”

“What a good thing for you I was available,” Izaya teases. “Otherwise you’d have to play Go against yourself.”

“It’d be more fun,” Shizuo tells him. “I might actually win sometimes, that way.”

“Don’t be a sore loser.” Izaya sets his piece against the top of the fold-out board Shizuo managed to unearth shortly after his arrival, while Izaya was still huddled around the kotatsu and not sure yet that he was ever going to be warm again. After a half hour of being nursed alternately by the heat radiating up through his feet and the cup of tea Shizuo all but forced on him, he has enough feeling back in his fingers to even achieve something of a flourish with his move to leave the stone spinning in place against the board when he pulls his touch away. “If you practiced more you could at least put up a better fight.”

“Like you practice,” Shizuo scoffs. “All you ever do is play that crazy game you made up for yourself, that doesn’t make you better at Go proper.”

“Some of us have an inborn talent,” Izaya teases. “And you’re not that hard to beat.”

“Brat,” Shizuo says, but he’s grinning when he reaches for another piece of his own. Izaya smirks from the other side of the kotatsu and braces his elbow against the surface so he can lean against it and tilt his head into consideration.

“Who else did you invite that couldn’t make it?” he asks. “You did know Shinra finally got Celty to agree to a date, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did,” Shizuo says. “He hasn’t stopped talking about it for three days, it’d be difficult to _not_ know. Kadota had plans with Togusa already. I thought Kasuka might be around, but he left for a party with a bunch of his friends an hour ago.”

“Mm.” Izaya reaches for the dish of Go stones, catching one between his fingertips and toying with it idly without considering the board. “How many dates did he get asked out on this year?”

Shizuo sighs. “I don’t even know. A dozen, at least, that he mentioned.”

“You sound so disappointed,” Izaya teases. “Jealous that your little brother is so much more popular than you are?”

Shizuo looks up at Izaya and raises an eyebrow. “Why would I be jealous?”

“He has so many options.” Izaya twists the piece, balancing it against the tips of his fingers before letting it drop back against the catch of his palm; Shizuo’s gaze slides sideways to track the motion of Izaya’s hand and Izaya repeats the movement, twisting the piece against the back of his fingers and watching the way Shizuo’s attention clings to the action. “A dozen girls asking him out and lots of parties to choose from, if he doesn’t feel like settling down to just one admirer. And you’re at home with only your best friend for company.”

Shizuo laughs without looking away from Izaya’s fingertips, the sound easy on sincere amusement. “Yeah, I’m really missing out, you know how crazy all the girls at school are about me.”

It’s sarcasm, it’s clear that’s what it is; Izaya can hear the laughter clinging under Shizuo’s words, can pick out the tone that says this is an absurd claim in his head, that dismisses the idea out of hand. But the words still bring an ache against the inside of Izaya’s ribcage, the one that presses hard against his heart until he can’t breathe for the weight, the one that pushes him into reckless actions in pursuit of a satisfaction he can’t imagine or at least the relief of the agony that is the next best substitute. It’s that that spills words from his mouth now, that pushes him to say “You could have a girlfriend” with so much bite on the words that he can’t even pretend to himself that they pass for platonic neutrality. He catches the Go piece against his palm, presses his fingers into the weight of a fist around it. “Not everyone at school is terrified of you, even with your hair.”

Shizuo blinks, his attention breaking free of Izaya’s fingers and coming back to his face. For a moment they’re staring at each other, Shizuo’s forehead creased into confusion and Izaya’s mouth dragging itself into a frown; and then Izaya looks away, ducking his head forward to stare at the Go board in imitation of someone completely engrossed by the pattern of the pieces in front of him.

“They should be,” Shizuo’s voice comes, too loud and still barely comprehensible past the ringing in Izaya’s ears. “I could lose my temper and hurt someone without even trying.”

“You haven’t hurt me,” Izaya says, honesty choosing this precise moment to make itself suddenly unstoppable in his throat.

“Of course I haven’t,” Shizuo says, sounding very nearly irritated, now. “You’re--” and then he stops, his words breaking off so abruptly Izaya can feel a chill of premonition run all down his spine for whatever was so awkwardly stopped at Shizuo’s tongue.

Izaya looks back up to meet Shizuo’s gaze for a moment. Shizuo is staring at him, his eyes so dark they look nearly black and his mouth uncommonly soft; Izaya can’t get a read on his expression, anger or hurt or heat any one, and then Shizuo turns his head and looks away and Izaya is left to stare at the yellow of his hair as it falls over his eyes.

“Different,” Shizuo finishes, mumbling the word until Izaya can barely hear it at all. He clears his throat roughly and reaches out for his own teacup with a grip so hard Izaya nearly expects the ceramic to shatter and spill all across the top of the kotatsu. “You could have one too. You get confessions every week.”

“I do,” Izaya allows, letting his voice drift into an airy lightness entirely distant from the panicked thud of his heart in his chest. “I love all of them, Shizuo, just like I love all humanity.” He looks down at the Go board, sets down the piece in his fingers without caring where it lands. “I couldn’t possibly choose just one human to love more than the others. That wouldn’t be fair to the rest.”

“Right.” The word comes harsh off Shizuo’s tongue; Izaya doesn’t look up to see what expression goes with it. He can hear the other’s frown without looking. “I should have remembered.”

“You should have,” Izaya says. There’s still that ache in his chest, still pressure threatening his tongue, and then, before he can call it back: “Good thing I can make exceptions for monsters.”

There’s a heartbeat of silence. Izaya’s fingertips are weighting the edge of one of the Go stones; when he pushes down it slides sideways, knocking another piece out of alignment on the board, but Shizuo doesn’t comment on the slip. Izaya can feel Shizuo’s stare focused on him, can feel his cheeks collecting color in spite of his best attempts; the cold of outside is long forgotten now with all his skin prickling into the heat of self-consciousness.

Shizuo takes a breath. “Izaya--”

“I mean,” Izaya says, so suddenly there’s no attempt he can make at a casual tone, no chance to strip the rush of panic off the sound of his voice. “It’d be hard to not even have a best friend.” He reaches for the misaligned Go stones, slides them back into place with a finger pressed against each one. “I’d have to go back to playing Go against myself, you know.”

“Ah,” Shizuo says. “Right.” He doesn’t seem entirely convinced -- there’s a hum under his voice that sounds like skepticism -- but Izaya doesn’t dare look up to meet his gaze, not when he can’t muster even a forced smile to push aside suspicion. There’s another beat of quiet, and then Shizuo says, “That isn’t where those pieces were,” with such an impressive attempt at a normal tone that Izaya doesn’t even call him out on it.

“Oh?” he says instead, relief dragging a smile onto his face that he can turn into a smirk as he looks up through his hair at Shizuo. “Are you trying to cheat to gain the upper hand, now?”

“I’m not cheating,” Shizuo insists, frowning at the board. “ _You’re_ not putting them back in the right place, doesn’t that make you the cheater?”

“That’s exactly what an unscrupulous person _would_ say.” Izaya sighs with put-upon resignation. “It’s terrible that a paragon of virtue like me has to try to keep you in line like this.”

Shizuo’s laugh is bright, startled out of him with such force that it achieves actual sincerity, stripped of the awkwardness still fading from the space between them. “ _You’re_ a paragon of virtue,” he scoffs. “How exactly are you defining those words?”

“The same way they always are,” Izaya tells him. “Don’t you remember your vocabulary either, Shizuo?”

“Shut up,” Shizuo says, and reaches out to catch the edge of the Go board and tip it up entirely to scatter the pattern of the pieces onto the top of the kotatsu. “Let’s just start over.”

“You’re still going to lose,” Izaya tells him. When he angles his foot sideways he can catch the weight of it against the inside of Shizuo’s knee, can kick enough pressure to jar Shizuo’s leg out by an inch. “Restarting won’t save you from your fate.”

“Yeah, sure,” Shizuo says, sounding far less convinced that he ought to. “Try to win without cheating this time and I’ll admit defeat.”

“Your accusations wound me,” Izaya drawls, and reaches for one of the slid-off pieces to set it against the empty board. “As if I need to cheat to win against you.”

Shizuo growls and swings his leg back in to knock against Izaya’s hip; Izaya just laughs and leans harder into the contact as Shizuo reaches for a piece of his own to make his move. With the distraction of the pressure he can almost ignore the knowledge forming from the weight in his chest, can almost push away the taste of the word _love_ like poison on his tongue, can almost avoid the impending epiphany spilling panic through his veins.

He thinks facing his own death would be easier than facing the truth.


	36. Momentary

“I can’t believe this place exists,” Kadota says from the far edge of the picnic blanket spread out under the cherry trees. “How did you hear about this, Orihara?”

“That’s confidential,” Izaya informs him, flashing a grin Kadota’s way that would pass for sincere except under the very closest of scrutiny. “If I gave away all my secrets for free I’d be out a job, Dotachin.”

“It’s funny that you’re the one with a job when you still have another year of high school to go,” Shinra observes, sounding as sincerely amused as if he really does find the situation entertaining. “You ought to be the one graduating and not us.”

“You’re right,” Izaya agrees, slow, like he’s considering the idea. “Maybe I’ll just stop going to classes next year. It’s not like I’ll gain anything from them at this point.”

A hand lands in his hair, ruffling through the strands with enough force to act as a shove as much as casual contact. “Don’t joke,” Shizuo growls at Izaya’s shoulder. “You had better keep going to classes next year.”

“Who’s going to make me?” Izaya asks, barely sparing a glance for the scowl Shizuo is directing at him. “You’re going to be too busy working to think about what I’m doing with my day.”

“School is important,” Shizuo tells him. “You can’t just stop attending as a third-year because you’re bored.”

 _Shizuo’s right_ , Celty puts in from the front edge of the blanket, turning around to offer the screen of her cell phone to the conversation. _You shouldn’t give up on your education._

Izaya sighs with as much melodrama as he can muster in the sound. “I suppose you’re right,” he allows, and Shizuo’s hand eases at his hair, sliding over the strands with contact so careful it’s almost gentle before his touch falls away entirely. “Though I expected more open minds from the fabled black rider and the strongest man in Ikebukuro.”

“Celty’s a good girl,” Shinra declares from the edge of the blanket. He’s smiling at Celty instead of looking back at Izaya; when he moves it’s to lean in sideways in an attempt to land himself across the other’s lap. It’s not his first try of the afternoon any more than it’s Celty’s first upraised arm to catch his shoulder and hold him off while she types rapidfire against the keyboard of her phone and holds it up for him. Shinra straightens without any apparent discontent; from the smile still clinging to his face, Izaya expects another attempt within the next five minutes. “The most amazing thing about her is how down-to-earth she is.”

“I agree,” Izaya drawls. “That’s _definitely_ the most startling aspect.” Celty turns back to him so sharply Izaya doesn’t need her cell phone to understand the equivalent of a glare she’s giving him; he flashes the sharp edges of a grin at her as Shinra topples sideways, actually landing his head against Celty’s lap before she can turn around to type protest. Kadota sighs, Izaya laughs, and Kadota’s friend Togusa stirs from the nap he drifted into sometime after they finished the sandwiches and thermos of tea they packed for the sakura viewing trip.

“Seriously,” Shizuo says, softly enough that Izaya barely hears him and his speech goes unnoticed under the wail of Shinra protesting Celty evicting him from her legs. “You _are_ going to keep going to class, right?”

Izaya glances sideways, considering Shizuo without entirely turning his head towards the other. Shizuo’s looking at him, his mouth drawn into a frown too soft to turn his eyes anything but dark on concern; there’s a petal caught in his hair, tangled into the yellow strands by the force of the wind that catches around them every few minutes to remind them it’s still springtime and not yet the heat of full summer.

“Probably,” Izaya allows, and reaches up to tug the pink free of Shizuo’s hair. “I can tell you that I am, if it’ll make you feel better.”

Shizuo sighs. “I want you to tell me the truth,” he says. He shifts his arm and braces his hand against the blanket just behind Izaya’s hip; when he leans sideways his shoulder bumps Izaya’s. “And to stay out of trouble.”

“You’re so demanding,” Izaya says. He curls his fingers in against his palm to press the petal to his skin and looks away from Shizuo’s gaze, staring out over the pale haze of color clinging to the trees in front of them. “I can do one of those, not both.”

Shizuo’s laugh is short, and sharp, and so close Izaya can feel the motion of it ruffle his hair. “You’re lying, aren’t you.”

Izaya smiles without looking back. “You’ve learned,” he says, and leans his weight back until his shoulders are pressing against the line of Shizuo’s arm behind him. Shizuo shifts, but not to pull away; it’s just to tip himself sideways, until the pressure of his shoulder is serving as counterpoint to the angle of Izaya’s. Izaya leans against Shizuo’s arm, and tightens his fingers on the cherry petal, and doesn’t look up to see the way Shizuo is looking at him.

He can guess, anyway.


	37. Unsuspicious

Izaya ditches classes within the first week of his third year.

School alone is exactly as boring as he remembers it being during his last year of middle school. The information covered during his courses is as uninteresting and irrelevant as he has always found it, and without a lunchtime audience even the gossip he collects from overheard conversations in the entryway or hallways loses over half its interest. Walking home is the hardest part; the blocks from school to his home feel longer than they ever have before, even with the assistance of headphones and a downloaded CD to ease the time. Shizuo is wholly absent, citing unfortunate hours at his new job for his unavailability in the evenings and refusing to respond to Izaya’s texts during the school day except to offer clipped variations of _pay attention in class_ to whatever taunts Izaya attempts. By Tuesday Izaya has stopped texting at all just out of spite, but classes are no more interesting even when he offers them his whole attention, and when lunchtime arrives he’s back to scrolling through websites on his phone that offers minimal distraction and less information. It helps a little; it lets him sit through the first few days of class just to overturn Shizuo’s expectations that he’ll ditch. And then Thursday morning he rises with his alarm, and pulls on his black jacket instead of his blue coat, and goes out to wander the city.

There’s not much to hear on the streets. The best source of information Izaya has now comes from the various online forums he habitually frequents, and those he has kept up on as the one continued source of interest in the dearth of social interaction he’s been in since the other three boys graduated. It’s still more fun to be downtown than at home, though, especially with the winter chill giving way to the first rays of summer-warm sunlight, so Izaya takes his phone and himself to the second-floor coffeeshop overlooking the main downtown crossroads and installs himself in a window seat where he can watch the midday traffic in the street below while he scrolls through forum posts and chat rooms to find out what Shizuo’s new job is.

It’s doesn’t take very long. There may be an influx of new employees with the surge of recent graduates looking for financial independence, but it’s easy to skim past the effusive delight over the hot new cashier at the bookstore and the latest additions to the maid cafe. It’s concern more than excitement Izaya is looking for, and then he finds it: a complaint about the delinquent working at the bar at the edge of town, with bleached hair and more of a taste for arguing than for cocktails. Izaya saves the address, closes his phone, and spends the next thirty minutes finishing his tea as slowly as he can before leaving his corner seat and making his way down to the main square so he can meander towards the bar.

It’s a classy establishment, far nicer than what Izaya was expecting for Shizuo’s place of employ. The alleys on either side are clear either of drunks or gang members, a not-insignificant achievement given the usual occupants of the downtown streets, and when Izaya pulls the door open he’s met by a man who appears as if from the shadows so smoothly Izaya doesn’t even see him until he’s suddenly there and positioning himself to block Izaya’s path into the main space.

“Apologies,” he says, in a voice that doesn’t sound apologetic at all. “I’m afraid you’re too young to come in. Shouldn’t you be in school, kid?”

Izaya considers him. He looks suitably threatening, in the sort of way better demonstrated by a tailored suit than bulging biceps. But Izaya knows who must own this bar, if the empty alleys are any indication, and that means:

“Not today,” he drawls. “It’s a holiday. I thought I might come by and see if Shiki-san was around.”

The man blinks, his expression clearing so abruptly of his adopted threat that he looks startled for a moment. “Shiki sent you?”

“No, no,” Izaya says, waving a hand to deny the claim. “I was just thinking to catch up with him, if he’s in.”

“Not today,” the other man says. Even his voice has eased; he sounds warmer now, almost friendly in response to Izaya’s implied question. “He doesn’t usually come by until later in the evening, if at all.”

“That’s too bad,” Izaya says. “Maybe I’ll have more luck with one of my other acquaintances. I hear you have a new bartender?”

“Oh, sure.” The man steps aside and gestures vaguely towards the dim lighting of the interior. “Behind the counter, the usual place.”

“Sure,” Izaya says. “Thanks.” He takes a step forward and is just blinking his vision into focus on the inside of the bar when a hand closes on his shoulder.

“Hey.” The man is eying him, squinting at Izaya’s face like he’s trying to place him. “You know the Heiwajima kid?”

“Unfortunately,” Izaya says. “What, did he kill someone already?”

“Shit,” the man says. “You’re Orihara Izaya, aren’t you?”

Izaya grins. “What gave me away?”

“Damn.” The hand at Izaya’s shoulder drops, the man draws back; he’s smiling now, the expression truly sincere in a way it’s strange to see on the face of any adult, much less one serving as security for an Awakusu-owned bar. “I was wondering when I’d get to meet you. Go ahead, go on in, stay as long as you like."

“Thanks,” Izaya drawls, and turns away to take the other’s suggestion and proceed into the bar itself.

The room is nearly empty at this hour of the day. There’s only a few patrons scattered at the far tables of the room, all engaged in intense conversations with others that are so soft Izaya’s sure he could walk right past and not hear a word that is said. But he’s not interested in fishing for information, so he doesn’t try to insinuate himself into any of the discussions; he makes for the counter itself, where there’s no company at all except for the familiar blond hair of the bartender. Shizuo’s looking down at his hands, scowling focus at whatever it is he’s trying to do; he doesn’t see Izaya coming, doesn’t even glance up until Izaya says, “Imagine meeting you in a place like this,” with the best purring imitation of flirtation he can manage.

Shizuo’s head snaps up immediately, whatever he’s doing at the counter entirely forgotten for the wide-eyed stare he gives Izaya. For a moment there’s just shock across his face; then Izaya sees his forehead crease, watches Shizuo’s mouth dip into a frown, and by the time he makes it to the coherency of “ _Izaya_ ” Izaya’s grinning amusement across the edge of the bar counter. “What are you _doing_ here?”

“Aren’t you glad to see me?” Izaya doesn’t answer. “It’s been days, I expected you to be pining for the pleasure of my company at this point.”

“It’s the middle of the day,” Shizuo tells him. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

Izaya grins. “It’s a holiday.”

“It is not.”

“It is for me.” Izaya braces one arm across the counter to hold his weight as he leans as far over the edge as he can manage to peer at the shadows in front of Shizuo. “What are you doing, Shizuo, that looks like you’re trying to poison someone.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo says without any bite to the words at all. “You shouldn’t even be in here, you’re not old enough to get in.”

“Neither are you.” Izaya straightens from his lean over the counter, slides an inch sideways so he can perch at the edge of a barstool instead. “How on earth did you manage to get this job? I bet _I_ could make a better cocktail than you could.”

“I’m getting trained,” Shizuo informs him. “They said they needed the help and it would be worth the effort to teach me.”

There’s tension along Shizuo’s shoulders, a note of defensive strain under his voice. Izaya flashes a grin. “Not going well, then?”

“Be quiet.” Shizuo closes his fingers on the half-full glass in front of him and reaches out to dump it out entirely. “How did you find out I was working here?”

“Gossip,” Izaya says succinctly. “There’s not so many too-young bartenders with bleached blond hair in Ikebukuro that one is going to go unnoticed.” He braces his elbow against the counter, leans in so he can reach out over the distance between them and touch his fingers to the dark edge of Shizuo’s vest. “A uniform, huh?”

“Yeah.” The fabric is heavy under Izaya’s touch, the soft give of it enough to speak to how expensive it must be if the elegant lines of the way it fits across Shizuo’s shoulders and waist weren’t enough. “Got out of Raijin’s and into this one.”

Izaya lifts his hand, stretches to brush his fingertips to the dark of the tie centered at Shizuo’s white collar. He can see the motion of Shizuo’s swallow at the contact, can see the tiny movement as his chin comes up by a half-inch like he’s offering his throat for Izaya’s consideration. Izaya stares at the dark of the tie, at the white of the shirt, at the pale of Shizuo’s skin; and then he lets his hand drop, and leans back over the counter, and lets his grin drag lopsided across his face without any indication of the flush that’s making his jacket seem suddenly too heavy against his skin.

“It looks good,” he tells Shizuo. “I should ask if the Awakusu can give you a whole bunch so you can have extras.”

Shizuo’s forehead creases again. “The Awakusu? What do the yakuza have to do with anything?”

Izaya raises an eyebrow, leans in to balance his chin against the support of his hand. “Shizuo,” he says, slow and patient and taunting. “How do you think I got in here?”

Shizuo’s gaze jumps towards the door, his face falling into the slack lines of slow-cresting epiphany. “Oh.” Then, as he rocks back on his heels: “ _Oh_.”

“It’s probably why they hired you,” Izaya tells him, not bothering with dropping into the telltale hiss of a whisper. “Since they can’t get any information on you by their usual means.”

Shizuo gives him a look. “You mean you.”

Izaya smiles at him. “How did you guess?”

“Shit.” Shizuo looks back at the doorway and the almost-unseen shadow of the man standing by it; Izaya can see uncertainty flicker across his face and tense against the curve of his lips. “Should I--”

“Don’t bother,” Izaya cuts him off. Shizuo looks back to him, his mouth still tight on concern, and Izaya goes on talking in the same deliberately unsuspicious tone he used before. “The Awakusu are involved in almost every business in the city, either directly or indirectly. If you’re working you won’t be able to avoid them entirely, and it could be a lot more dangerous than getting trained to bartend at a nice place like this.”

Shizuo narrows his eyes at him. “How many bars have you _been_ to, Izaya?”

Izaya flashes his teeth in a grin again. “The point is don’t worry about it,” he says, and reaches back out over the counter to bump his fingers to Shizuo’s vest again. “Besides, the uniform is snappy. It makes you look almost human after all.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo tells him, and Izaya laughs and leans back over the barstool.

“You should make me something,” he suggests. “I’ll try your worst, let me see how much natural talent you have.”

Shizuo glares at him. “No way,” he says. “You’re not even eighteen yet, I’m not going to provide you with alcohol while I’m at _work_.”

Izaya shrugs. “No one here would mind. They all know who I am.”

“That is not reassuring,” Shizuo tells him. “You should be in _class_ , not out making deals with the Ikebukuro underground.”

“I’m not,” Izaya says. “I’m taking my day off to visit my friend at his new job.” He tips his head to the side, drags his smile wide across his face. “I could be getting into all kinds of trouble without you. Aren’t you glad I came to visit instead?”

Shizuo looks at Izaya, his frown easing for a moment; then he ducks his head, his hair falling into his face, and when he says “Yeah” Izaya can feel the hum of the sound run all through the entirety of his body. “It’s good to see you.”

Izaya takes a breath, feels it struggle past the tension in his throat, but when he says “You missed me,” the sing-songy tease of the words comes out as easily as if he were perfectly calm, as if the taunting grin he greets Shizuo with as the other looks back up is the whole of his reaction. Shizuo frowns at him, and Izaya laughs, and if Shizuo thinks about the fact that it was Izaya that came to find him and not the other way around, he doesn’t say anything, and Izaya doesn’t bring it up.


	38. Appreciate

“I appreciate you coming by so late,” Shiki says as he escorts Izaya back to the front doors of the Awakusu-kai headquarters, trailed by his everpresent and eversilent pair of threatening bodyguards. “Calls and text messages are certainly more convenient, but some lines of inquiry are better left unrecorded except by those involved.”

“Of course,” Izaya agrees smoothly. “It’s no problem at all, I’m always glad to help out whenever I can.”

“We’re certainly grateful to you for that.” Shiki pushes open the door to the dark street outside, holds it open for Izaya. “I’ll have the funds transferred by morning as usual.”

“Excellent.” Izaya takes the steps down from the entryway two at a time, pivoting on his heel at the bottom to sketch a bow just this side of sincere instead of mocking. “Pleasure doing business with you, of course.”

“Yes.” Shiki squints down the street, his eyes narrowing at the dim lighting on the main pathway. “Would you care for an escort? It is after curfew, after all.”

Izaya waves away the offer. “I can get myself home safely.” He bares his teeth in a smile deliberately calculated to be as vicious as possible. “I’m sure I can deal with any issues I run into.”

“Sure,” Shiki agrees, and steps back out of the doorway. “We’ll be in touch.”

“Evening,” Izaya calls back, and then Shiki lets the door fall shut and he’s left alone on the night-dark sidewalk.

The streets are busy even at this hour of the night, bustling with the crowd that always has something to do regardless of where the sun sits in the sky; it’s easy for Izaya to lose himself among them, to pass as one of the adults with every right to be out this late at night. He knows how to move with purpose, with a weight to his steps and a steadiness to his gaze that makes it look like he has places to go and things to do and that keeps him from being stopped by any but the most aggressive of policemen. And indeed, he makes it through the main streets of downtown without any issues, even walking right past a drowsy officer at one point without a flicker of attention from the man. It’s not until he’s reached the outskirts of downtown that Izaya lets his pace ease out of focused attention, drops his motion back into the idle skip he prefers as he maneuvers through the minimal array of late-night citygoers. He’s just reaching into his pocket for his phone to start flicking through forum posts when there’s a shout from behind him, “ _Hey!_ ” pitched loud enough to carry clear over the distance.

Izaya’s spine prickles. He has no real reason to think the speaker is talking to him, except that the crowd is parting around him, strangers are eying him and then ducking away, and he can hear footsteps approaching along the sidewalk behind him. He drops his hold on his phone, reaches for the other weight in his pocket instead, and doesn’t turn around; better to buy himself the element of surprise he may be able to gain if his attacker thinks he’s unaware.

He can hear the footsteps approaching, falling loud enough that the other must be coming at nearly a run. Izaya curls his fingers around the handle in his pocket, steadies his hold so he won’t lose his grip when he does move. There’s adrenaline rushing up his spine, speeding his breathing and pounding hard in his pulse, and then there’s a touch at his shoulder and he’s moving all at once, pivoting on a heel and swinging the knife in his hand free of his pocket at the same time the blade snaps open under his bracing thumb. The motion is whip-quick, so well-drilled as to be nearly instinctive, until when Izaya actually sees who it is standing behind him and processes the lack of threat offered there’s no time for him to abort the swing of his hand. The best he can do is to stumble backwards, to throw his whole body back since he can’t stall the movement of his arm, and Shizuo’s recoiling in the other direction, falling back out of range as his eyes go wide at the sudden danger of the knife in Izaya’s hand.

“ _Fuck_ ” he gasps, and Izaya’s balance falls from under him, his feet skidding out against the sidewalk and dropping him backwards. He gets his hand out to catch the first weight of the impact, but it’s still enough to jolt all the way up to his shoulder even before he lands bruisingly hard at his hip. Breath leaves his lungs in a gust of pain, his attention scatters for a moment, and then Shizuo’s coming forward again, dropping to a knee in front of him before Izaya has yet blinked his vision back into clarity.

“What the _fuck_ , Izaya,” Shizuo manages, shock and concern warring across his features. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Izaya manages, and pushes against the blade to close it back into the handle. He does it as quickly as he can, but Shizuo’s attention still skips down to the weapon, his mouth still goes taut on a frown as Izaya slides it back into his pocket. “You could try being a little less intimidating when you’re saying hi, Shizuo.”

“I didn’t think you were going to pull a _knife_ on me,” Shizuo growls at him, but the anger under his voice is more than undone by how wide his eyes are with concern. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“All kinds of things,” Izaya says, and pushes himself off the sidewalk and back to his feet without holding Shizuo’s gaze. His hip aches with the motion -- he can feel the strain of the bruise running all the way down the outside of his leg -- but he doesn’t flinch to give himself away, doesn’t even wait for Shizuo to stand before he turns to continue moving down the sidewalk. Shizuo is left to scramble to his feet with far more haste and jog forward to catch up to Izaya’s stride; Izaya doesn’t turn this time, doesn’t look up even when Shizuo falls into pace alongside him.

“You’re not supposed to be out this late,” Shizuo tells him. He’s turned in sideways towards Izaya, his shoulders tilted until the other can’t see anyone else on that side for the black-and-white pattern of Shizuo’s uniform. “It’s way past curfew.”

“Is it really?” Izaya asks, cutting his gaze sideways to match the sharp edge on the smirk he gives. “I get into so much trouble without you, I can’t even tell the time.”

“Don’t be a brat,” Shizuo tells him. “What were you _doing_?”

“Business,” Izaya says flatly. “I was working just like you were.”

“My job doesn’t require me to carry a _weapon_ on me.”

Izaya huffs a laugh at the sidewalk. “Of course not. You’re a weapon all in yourself, you don’t need anything more than your body to defend yourself.”

“ _You_ shouldn’t need to defend yourself at all.” Shizuo’s voice is harsh, gravel dragging against the back of his throat; there’s a touch at Izaya’s shoulder, a ghosting moment of contact before it draws away again. “You should be safe at home.”

“If I wanted to be safe I wouldn’t be friends with you,” Izaya tells Shizuo, and he does look up then, meeting the concern in Shizuo’s eyes with an edge under his own gaze. “Why do you think I talked to you in middle school in the first place?”

It’s more honest than he intended to be. It’s the pain, he thinks, the ache lancing up through his whole leg now, until he has to grit his teeth to keep his pace anything like normal against the burn of agony settling in against the small of his back; the distraction of pushing that aside leaves him with very little attention to spare for anything else, including tempering too much sincerity into the safety of at least half a lie. But the words are out before he can stop them, sharp with the edge of truth under them, and Izaya just has time to see Shizuo’s expression fall into open surprise before he looks back down to the sidewalk and sets his jaw against the hiss of hurt that threatens with each step.

There’s a pause. Izaya is grateful to the silence, glad for the focus it lets him devote to maintaining a normal pace; he thinks he’s doing a good job of it in spite of the hurt, but then Shizuo clears his throat, and when he says “You’re limping,” Izaya flinches as if from a blow.

“I’m not,” he says in the most blatant lie he’s told all day. “You’re imagining things.”  
Shizuo doesn’t speak again; he just reaches his hand out and swings his knuckles gently against Izaya’s hip. Izaya’s vision flares to red, the support of his entire leg buckles, and he’s stumbling into danger of falling again when Shizuo grabs at his arm.

“You’re a liar,” Shizuo tells him, the statement coming with uncanny gentleness on his tongue. “You can’t walk home like that. Let me carry you.”

Izaya forces a laugh without looking up from the fit of Shizuo’s too-tight grip around his arm. “What, you want to take a turn at playing the hero instead of the monster?”  
“ _Izaya_ ,” Shizuo says, so sharply that Izaya looks up involuntarily, his attention forced upward by the edge of emotion on Shizuo’s tongue. Shizuo’s staring at him; by all rights his eyes should look almost black, shadowed as they are by his hair and the dim lighting of the streetlamps, but they’re catching light from somewhere Izaya can’t trace and turning the shade of bitter chocolate or sweet coffee. He’s frowning, his mouth is set into familiar irritation, but it’s not enough to offset that focus in his eyes, not enough to chill the heat that flushes suddenly and unavoidably across Izaya’s cheekbones. “ _Let me_.”

Izaya has to swallow the tension out of his throat, has to breathe hard before he can find enough space on his tongue to manage a sufficiently off-hand tone for “Well, if you’re going to _insist_.”

“Good,” Shizuo says, and then he’s turning away, breaking the intensity of his stare and offering his shoulders for Izaya instead. He takes a knee against the sidewalk, bracing himself to steadiness, and Izaya reaches out for Shizuo’s shoulder to balance his weight against the other as he steps in close enough to lean against the clean black lines of Shizuo’s vest. Shizuo’s warm to the touch, the radiance of his skin enough to feel even through the layer of fabric across his shoulders, and then he’s reaching back without waiting for the other to steady himself and fitting his arms under Izaya’s knees. Izaya’s arms end up around Shizuo’s shoulders, his face pressed close against the other’s hair, and then Shizuo asks, “Ready?” and moves without waiting for a response, getting to his feet as fluidly as if he’s not carrying Izaya at all. Izaya’s balance lurches, his body tensing in instinctive panic, but then Shizuo’s on his feet and continuing down the sidewalk and there’s just the frantic rush of Izaya’s heartbeat to distract him from the way Shizuo feels against him.

“Hold on better,” Shizuo says. It’s strange to hear him talk like this, when Izaya can feel the purr of the other’s voice against his chest pressed flush to Shizuo’s back. “You’re going to fall like that. Haven’t you ever had a piggyback ride before?”

“No.” Izaya shifts himself forward, pushing against Shizuo’s hold at his knees for a moment to rock in closer; Shizuo turns his head to keep his hair free and Izaya fits both arms around Shizuo’s neck, holding on tightly enough that his mouth is inches from the bright yellow of Shizuo’s hair. “Who exactly would I have had one from?”

“Huh,” Shizuo says. “I used to carry Kasuka back from the park like this, sometimes.” He shifts his hold again; for a minute Izaya can feel each of Shizuo’s fingers pressing in against his thigh. The heat of the contact lingers even after Shizuo’s shifted back to a gentler hold. “You weigh even less than he used to.”

“Or you’re stronger,” Izaya suggests. “God help us all if your strength is growing along with all the rest of you.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo tells him, but he’s smiling, Izaya can see the edge of his grin if he looks for it. “At least wait to complain until you’re not actively benefitting from it.”

“Where would be the fun in that?” Izaya asks, but he does fall silent anyway; there’s plenty to hold his attention without speech, even aside from the dull throb of the bruise settling into his hip. Shizuo’s like a wall against him, the shift of his shoulders as he walks apparently unaffected by the extra weight of Izaya against his back; Izaya can feel the shift of Shizuo’s shirt against his own, can breathe in the faint suggestion of smoke from the bar clinging to Shizuo’s hair. When Shizuo adjusts his hold on Izaya’s legs Izaya can feel the ache against the inside of his thighs, can feel the strain of having his knees open unusually wide to fit around Shizuo’s waist.

“Is that really why?” Shizuo asks suddenly, the words so startling in the midst of Izaya’s all-over distraction that he can’t even place the subject for a moment. “Why you made friends with me in middle school. Because I was strong?”

Izaya can taste his heartbeat thudding fast at the back of his tongue. “Of course,” he says, feeling all his skin prickle hot with the memory of it, with that first thrilling shock of seeing a boy do something no human should be able to do as casually as breathing. “I thought you knew.”

“I probably should have guessed,” Shizuo allows. “You really are an adrenaline junkie, aren’t you?”

Izaya smiles against Shizuo’s hair and ducks his head to bump his forehead to the back of Shizuo’s head. “And to think, it only took you six years to figure it out.”

“You are such a brat,” Shizuo tells him. “I ought to drop you and let you limp yourself home after all.”

“Probably,” Izaya agrees, and Shizuo laughs, the sound rumbling through Izaya’s chest like he can feel the pleasure of it secondhand. There’s another pause, another half-block’s worth of forward movement, and then:

“No one’s ever liked that about me,” rough, low, so quiet Izaya can barely hear the words for how far forward Shizuo’s head is tipped.

Izaya stares at the back of Shizuo’s head, feels the rhythm of the other’s stride in the support of the shoulders under him, in the easy hold Shizuo’s keeping on his knees. It takes him three tries to get enough air to speak, but at least they come silently, and Shizuo doesn’t see the strain across his expression as Izaya fights for the right words and the right tone for them.

“I do,” he finally manages, feeling the words twist and strain in his throat until he doesn’t know how they come out, until he can’t hear the sound of them for the ringing of his heartbeat thudding fast in his ears. “After all, I’d be limping myself home if you weren’t such a freak.”

“You’re not even that heavy,” Shizuo informs him. “If you weren’t so skinny, maybe this would be more impressive.”

Izaya smiles. “Maybe,” he says, and ducks his head forward again to press his face against the soft warmth of Shizuo’s hair.

When he breathes in, he can taste summer on his lips.


	39. Alone

Izaya doesn’t see much of Shizuo that year.

It’s easy to ditch class; there’s no one keeping track of where he is or what he’s doing, and there’s invariably more to do downtown than while sitting idle in the back of a classroom. But after the first few months Shizuo scowls hard enough when he sees Izaya at the bar that even Izaya’s ever-ready desire to draw a reaction out of the other flags and gives way to surrender, until even when he’s not in class he’s more often tucked away in the corner of his preferred coffeeshop than he is chatting his way past the bouncer at the entrance of Shizuo’s place of employment. It’s not like he can’t check his phone as well in class as he can out of it, but there’s a satisfaction to be gained just in being somewhere he’s not meant to be, even if he goes out of his way to ensure Shizuo doesn’t catch him at it. But that same effort means he can’t contact Shizuo during what are technically school hours, and the bar has Shizuo training for the afternoons and actually working in the evenings, and so Izaya gains the habit of finding his own way home through night-dark streets, when even the forum posts for the day have quieted as the other members of his various groups log off to go home to friends or family, parents or children or just a girlfriend or boyfriend awaiting their attention. Izaya’s always the last one to log out; he waits until the chat rooms are empty before typing out whatever lie he wants to tell that day about his plans before he leaves the cafe and wanders the long way home through city streets to his house. Sometimes Mairu and Kururi are awake when he gets home; more often the windows are dark, the interior silent, until Izaya takes to silencing his phone with a block to go to the front door so he won’t disturb the weight of the quiet inside with an unexpected phone call.

The biggest problem, he decides as summer slides into autumn, as the crisp of autumn gives way to the bite of winter that digs past even the weight of his familiar jacket to tremble cold across his shoulders, is the boredom. Izaya’s sure he could handle anything else; pain, certainly, the drama of social interactions or the stress of too-much work, all seem manageable in the hypotheticals he invents in his head. But there’s nothing, no danger in the information transfers he makes with the Awakusu-kai and no thrill to scrolling through the walls of forum posts that trickle in all day -- even Blue Square has fallen silent, until there’s no word from them anywhere on the streets and Izaya begins to think even Izumii has given up his vendetta. There’s nothing to do, in or out of school; Izaya even goes back one day, just to see if the inside of a classroom is any worse than the coffeeshop, but it all comes out to the same thing in the end: scrolling chat messages, trivial gossip, and the cold in the air settling against Izaya’s spine until he can’t shake it, until the defensive forward hunch arming him against shivering feels permanent, until he takes to walking slower just because he can’t get a full breath with the tension curving in his shoulders and against his back.

He still doesn’t attend school more than once a week. There’s nothing better to do downtown, but sometimes he can lose an hour just staring out the window at the shapes of half-familiar faces walking along the street below. Sometimes he sees Celty, cutting around a corner too fast for him to attempt to catch her attention; once he runs into Kadota picking up a carrier of coffee cups for the vanful of people waiting for him by the curb. They chat for a minute about Shinra’s university courses and Kadota’s newest job laying tile in restaurant bathrooms; then there’s a honk from outside, and Kadota waves and leaves before Izaya can decide if he’s pleased by the company or frustrated by the distraction. He’s off-balance for the rest of the day, reading over forum posts for five minutes before he realizes he’s repeating pages, and finally just gives up and stares out the window for an hour to pick out the bleached-blond hair of strangers from the crowd.

It’s text that Izaya has learned to deal with, the distant medium of chat rooms where he can adopt whatever tone he likes, an imitation of Shiki’s rough tone or the chirping, emoji-laden accent done in caricature of Mairu’s usual speech. He never gets phone calls and makes them less frequently, until when his phone hums when he’s walking home in early December it takes him several long seconds to figure out that it’s the pattern for a call and not for a text message. He’s frowning as he pulls his phone out of his pocket, squinting against the backlit-bright of the screen to read the name -- and then answering, bringing the phone to his ear so quickly his mouth is still softening from the weight of confusion as he answers. “Shizuo?”

“Izaya,” Shizuo says from the other end of the phone. “Hey.”

“Hi,” Izaya answers. He’s stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk, lost to the shadows of the poorly-lit residential streets; there’s just the bright from his phone glowing against his cheek, the peripheral illumination of it catching at his vision when he blinks. He tries to backtrack the time, tries to make a guess at the hour; the sun set well before he left downtown, there’s nothing now but the stars overhead to determine the time, and he lacks the reference to judge it from that alone. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

There’s a huff of sound on the other end of the phone. “It’s past midnight. I just got out. Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“Who said I wasn’t?” Izaya asks. “You could have woken me up, it’s thoughtless calling this late, you know.”

“I didn’t,” Shizuo informs him. “Don’t pick a fight.”

Izaya smiles unseen into the dark. “I hear and obey.”

“Brat,” Shizuo says, and then, in a rush: “What are you doing for Christmas?”

Izaya can feel electricity unfold up his spine, prickle all across his scalp and back down his body to settle in the very tips of his fingers, to curl at the very corner of his mouth. “I don’t know yet,” he drawls. “Why does it matter to you?”

“You are such a pain,” Shizuo tells him. “I just found out I have the evening off. Are you going to come over?”

“It’s still three weeks away,” Izaya points out. He takes another step down the sidewalk, lets his stride fall into an idle rhythm more for the distraction than the effect of the forward motion. “I’m sure you can pick yourself up a girlfriend before then if you try real hard.”

There’s a growl from the other end of the line, frustration hissing to static in the distance between them. “I don’t want to spend Christmas with a girlfriend,” Shizuo snaps. “Are you going to come over?”

Izaya takes a breath of winter-crisp air. “No,” he says, and then, quick, before Shizuo has more than taken a sudden inhale of shock, “I’ll meet you downtown. When do you get done with work that day?”

“Three.”

“Fine.” Izaya jumps up onto the lip of one of his neighbor’s planters; the cut-back flower stems graze his ankles but he balances along the edge for one step, two, a third before his balance wobbles and he has to leap back down. “I’ll see you on Christmas, Shizuo.”

“Good.” There’s a pause, then: “Sorry for calling so late.”

“It’s fine.” Izaya tips his head back, smiles up at the constellations overhead. “I wasn’t asleep.”

“I knew you weren’t. Are you even at home?”

“Ask me again in five minutes.”

“Oh my god,” Shizuo groans. “Go the fuck to bed, Izaya.”

“I’m going,” Izaya tells him. “Bye.”

There’s a crackle of a laugh from the other end, amusement spilling through the phone line to hum against Izaya’s ear. “‘Night.” And then a click, and the weight of silence in place of Shizuo’s voice.

Izaya slides his phone shut and fits it back into his pocket alongside his knife. When he looks up the stars look brighter for the chill of the air, the bright white shining the clearer for the dark of the sky around them.

His jacket feels warmer than the cold of the night.


	40. Options

Izaya’s waiting when Shizuo comes out the front door of the bar. He’s been ready for ten minutes, after arriving early enough to be sure he’d beat Shizuo and arranging himself into a comfortable perch at the top of a chest-high fence along the empty lot across the street from the bar. It’s easy to keep his balance by hooking the toes of his boots into the chainlinks and leaning back against the support, and that’s what he’s been doing since, amusing himself more with maintaining his balance than with the Christmas-slow trickle of comments appearing on his phone. Five minutes pass, ten; by the time the door of the bar opens to release Shizuo out onto the sidewalk Izaya can feel the effort of keeping his position straining against the tops of his thighs and in the small of his back. Shizuo looks up the street first, squinting into the distance like he’s trying to check every face of the few passersby; then he looks across the street in Izaya’s direction, his attention skipping up immediately to where the other is balanced, and the tense frown at his mouth vanishes, giving way to a flicker of a smile before he checks for traffic and strides across the street careless of the crosswalk a few feet away.

“Hi there,” Izaya purrs as Shizuo comes into speaking range, close enough that Izaya can see the color of his eyes as he looks up. Izaya flicks his phone shut with a flourish, letting the plastic snap against itself as the hinge closes. “You’re late, you know.”

“I know,” Shizuo says without reaching for his own phone to check the time. “I got caught in a conversation with the owner and couldn’t get away.”

“How rude of him,” Izaya drawls. Shizuo takes a half-step closer, reaching out to tangle his fingers into the top line of the fence; he’s close enough to touch, now. Izaya can see the clip at the edge of his bowtie pressed tight at the collar of his shirt. “You should have told him you had a date.”

Shizuo flashes Izaya an unreadable look, his eyes going dark for a moment before his frown returns. “I did tell him I was meeting someone,” he says. “You could have come inside, you know, you would have been warmer.”

“I’m fine,” Izaya informs him. “There’s this amazing invention called a jacket that is intended to keep people warm even when it’s cold out.” He lets his gaze drag over the white sleeves of Shizuo’s shirt and the single layer of fabric over the other’s arms and shoulders. “It’s a novel thing, you should try it sometimes.”

“I can’t believe _you’re_ lecturing me on this,” Shizuo says. “Are you going to get down, or should I leave you there to preen and go into town myself?”

“You told your boss you had a date,” Izaya tells him. “I’d hate to make you a liar.” He reaches out to brace his hand against Shizuo’s shoulder, just over the dark line of the other’s vest across his shirt; Shizuo reaches up at once, sets his free hand against Izaya’s waist to steady him, and when Izaya leans forward Shizuo takes his weight without hesitation, leaning backwards slightly to compensate for Izaya pressing against his chest. They’re like that for a moment, Shizuo’s fingers like fire against the outside of Izaya’s coat and his shoulder warm and steady under the other’s hold; then Izaya lets himself slide down, landing lightly on his toes against the sidewalk, and twists away and free of Shizuo’s touch before the contact can more than flicker electricity up his spine.

“So, Shizuo,” Izaya drawls, moving away down the sidewalk as Shizuo jogs forward to catch up with him and fall into pace at his elbow. “Where shall we go for Christmas?”

“I don’t know,” Shizuo admits. “What do you feel like doing?”

“Hmm.” Izaya tips his head back, makes a show of gazing consideration up at the winter-grey sky overhead. “Karaoke’s popular, I understand.”

Shizuo snorts. “You’d spend the whole time making fun of my taste in music.”

“If you had better taste in music I wouldn’t have to.” Izaya tips his head sideways to grin at Shizuo; the other is watching him, his mouth quirked up at the corner into a smile. His eyes are softer than Izaya is used to seeing them; without the tension of irritation set into his forehead Izaya almost doesn’t recognize his best friend in the expression he’s seeing.

He looks away fast. “You’re probably right, though,” he allows. “It’ll be impossible to get a room for just two people without any kind of a reservation.”

“We could get something to eat,” Shizuo suggests. “I think Russia Sushi is open.”

“Russia Sushi is always open,” Izaya tells him. “I’m not sure that they actually serve _food_ , but they’re always _open_ , technically.”

Shizuo huffs a laugh. “The more expensive stuff isn’t bad,” he says. “I just got my paycheck for the last couple weeks, I could--” His hand catches against Izaya’s, his knuckles bumping under the cuff of Izaya’s jacket, and he cuts himself off into a hiss. “ _Fuck_ , your hands are _freezing_.” He stops walking, turns in towards Izaya on the sidewalk, and Izaya stops too, locked in place as much by reflex as by the warmth of Shizuo’s hand closing around his fingers. “How long were you waiting for me outside?”

“Not long,” Izaya says, but Shizuo’s not looking at him; he’s frowning at Izaya’s fingers, pressing his thumb too-hard against them like he can push away the chill by force.

“Why didn’t you just come inside?” Shizuo asks. “I know the bouncer lets you in every time you come by, you could have warmed up while I was finishing.”

“I had only just gotten there,” Izaya says, because it’s easier to lie than to admit that he’s been thinking about this all morning, that ten minutes of waiting in the cold is nothing compared with the risk of missing Shizuo leaving, that the chill of the wind was infinitely easier to bear than going inside and implicitly admitting his own enthusiasm. “I’ve just been out and about all afternoon, I had other things to do.”

Shizuo looks up from his hold on Izaya’s hand, his forehead creasing again into the familiar weight of a scowl. “I wish you wouldn’t get into trouble without me.”

“Wish all you want,” Izaya tells him. His hand is burning, the embedded chill of the winter air retreating into prickling heat running all the way up his arm like the ache of a burn without the relief of the associated hurt. “If you hate it that much, you’re welcome to find a new best friend.”

“I’m not--” Shizuo starts, then stops, frowning hard at Izaya. “I just worry about you.”

“You do,” Izaya agrees. His whole arm is burning, now, the heat is creeping up to his shoulder and skipping hard in his pulse; if it makes it to his heart he isn’t sure he’ll ever find the rhythm of his breathing again. He twists his hand in Shizuo’s hold, dragging his fingers free of the other’s grip; Shizuo blinks, looking down like he’s just realized what he was doing, and Izaya shoves his hand into his pocket, safely out of sight where Shizuo won’t see the way his fingers are starting to tremble. “Maybe that’s why I do it.” He’s ready when Shizuo looks up, expecting the startled-wide stare the other gives him; Izaya meets it with the most insincere smirk he can muster, holds the expression while Shizuo’s forehead creases, while his mouth tightens and drops into a frown of uncertainty.

“Don’t be a brat,” Shizuo finally manages, fitting the words around a growl to match the scowl he’s giving Izaya.

Izaya laughs, not caring that it’s too loud, not caring that it turns to near-hysteria in the back of his throat. “Don’t be silly, Shizuo,” he teases, and turns to pace down the sidewalk backwards, still offering Shizuo a smirk as he goes. “You know you love that about me.”

“You’re the worst,” Shizuo tells him as he follows, but there’s tension at the corner of his mouth, the suggestion of an unwilling smile he’s trying to fight back. “I can’t believe I’m friends with you.”

Izaya flashes his teeth. “I can’t either. Why would you choose me when you have _so_ many other options available to you?”

Shizuo shrugs. “I must be a masochist.”

“Must be,” Izaya agrees. He turns as Shizuo catches up to him, twisting in the space between one step and another to face the right way down the sidewalk. He closes his fingers into a fist in his pocket; the tension holds back the trembling, hides the motion of the adrenaline still lingering in his veins. “Buy me some Christmas sushi, Shizuo.”


	41. Heartbeat

Izaya finds Shizuo on the far side of the school gates.

“Hey there,” he calls as the other’s blond hair comes into view, as he draws close enough to see the slouch of Shizuo’s shoulders against the wall. “Didn’t you have the patience to wait through the whole ceremony?”

Shizuo turns his head to look at Izaya, his mouth quirking into a smile as he sees the other. There’s a cigarette at his lips; he looks away again as Izaya approaches, taking a last inhale and breathing out a lungful of smoke into the air as Izaya comes to lean sideways against the wall next to him.

“I saw you graduate,” Shizuo says, fishing a paper envelope out of his pocket and dropping the cigarette into it. The ember at the end extinguishes with a tiny burst of smoke and Shizuo pockets the envelope again. “I just didn’t want to sit through the rest of your class. I knew you’d find me afterwards.”

“You just wanted to have a cigarette,” Izaya teases, reaching out to flick his fingers against the crinkle of the paper in Shizuo’s pocket. “Are you already such a slave to addiction?”

“Shut up.” Shizuo swings his hand to slap Izaya’s wrist away from his vest; Izaya lets his arm swing wide, lets his grin crackle into a laugh for a moment as Shizuo’s mouth tugs at a smile. “I didn’t want to be a damper on the family celebrations for the other students.”

“That is true,” Izaya allows, adopting a frown as if he’s truly giving the thought some consideration. “I guess the parents wouldn’t really want a pervert there at their child’s graduation.”

Shizuo coughs like he’s suddenly forgotten how to breathe. “ _What?_ ” He manages an inhale, staring shock at Izaya. “Are you talking about _me_?”

“Obviously,” Izaya drawls, turning to lean both shoulders against the wall behind him so he can look up at the cherry blossoms framing the blue sky overhead. “Who else would I be referring to?”

Shizuo frowns at him. “I’m not a pervert, why would you--”

“Of course you are,” Izaya says. He cuts his gaze sideways, looks up at Shizuo’s blank expression through the dark of his eyelashes. “You corrupted a pure young boy into god only knows what kind of debauchery and sin.”

Shizuo’s eyebrows go up. His mouth twitches. “Sorry, _who_?”

“Seducing a minor is a terrible thing, Shizuo,” Izaya tells him, still sustaining the low weight of criticism on his tongue even as his lips fight to make the shape of a smile. “Are you really that into high schoolers?”

“You are _four months_ younger than me,” Shizuo tells him. “And we’re _friends_ , I’m not seducing you into anything.” His cheeks are faintly pink, his mouth quivering like he’s not sure whether to laugh or scowl. “If anything it’s the other way around.”

Izaya raises his eyebrows as high as they will go. “ _Have_ I been seducing you, Shizuo? You’ll have to let me know next time so I can do a better job of it.”

“That’s not what I--” Shizuo starts, and then stops himself, visibly fighting back words to replace them with a glare at Izaya. “ _You’re_ the one who corrupts _me_.”

“Is that the best defense you can come up with?” Izaya teases. “You should really take responsibility for the terrible effect you’ve had on me all these years.”

“I’ve been a _great_ influence on you,” Shizuo growls, reaching out to push at Izaya’s shoulder to punctuate his statement. “God only knows what trouble you’d get yourself into alone.”

Izaya heaves a dramatic sigh, watching Shizuo glare at him from under the shadow of his hair. “I’ve been surrounded by the activities of delinquents for _years_.” Shizuo grabs at his shoulder and Izaya steps sideways to dodge the other’s hold, can feel his mouth curving into an irrepressible grin as Shizuo turns to face him and he takes another step back to stand just at the edge of the school gate. “Drawn into gang warfare and now tangled up with the yakuza, really, it’s a miracle I graduated at all.”

“It really is,” Shizuo growls at him. His hand comes out again, his fingers stretching for a hold at Izaya’s hair, and Izaya starts to move sideways across the sidewalk only to run into Shizuo’s other arm outstretched like a wall alongside him. Shizuo grins, a flash of white teeth edged with enough danger to prickle adrenaline all down Izaya’s spine, and then his hand is in Izaya’s hair, his arm hooking around the other’s shoulders to pull him in by force against the front of his dark vest. Izaya stumbles and half-falls, and his teetering balance catches him against Shizuo’s chest, the impact of the motion enough to leave him breathless even though Shizuo doesn’t so much as stumble backwards.

“You are such a brat,” Shizuo tells him, laughter audible in his voice while Izaya blinks at the line of the vest running across the other’s shoulder and tries to remember how to take another inhale. His heart is racing in his chest, the adrenaline in his veins surging hotter instead of fading, and then the fingers in his hair go gentle and Shizuo’s hand slides down to Izaya’s shoulder to bracket the other’s body with the weight of his arm. There’s a moment of hesitation, a tiny pause so minimal Izaya wouldn’t notice were he not so hyper-aware of every beat of his heart, and then Shizuo’s other arm comes up to wrap around Izaya’s back and pull him in with awkward affection. Izaya stumbles again, his balance demanding that he move his foot in closer with nowhere to fit it between Shizuo’s, but when he shifts Shizuo just tightens his hold like he thinks Izaya might be trying to pull away.

“I’m proud of you,” Shizuo says against the top of Izaya’s head, his voice rough in the back of his throat. Izaya can feel the vibration of the sound running through Shizuo’s chest, can feel his heart skid against the resonance of the words like it’s trying to reorient itself to the rhythm of Shizuo’s voice. “Congratulations on your graduation, Izaya.”

Izaya can feel his heart pounding in his throat, can taste the shiver of panicked adrenaline collecting at the back of his tongue. He can’t close his eyes, can’t move his feet; he’s left pressing hard against Shizuo’s shoulder, the whole of his weight given over to the other’s support while his chest tries to recall the rhythm of breathing he seems to have lost somewhere between Shizuo’s hand ruffling through his hair and the press of Shizuo’s arms around his shoulders. He blinks, drags himself through a breath. There’s the taste of smoke on his tongue, the press of secondhand cigarettes clinging to his lips, but all he can smell is Shizuo, the sun-warmed dark of his vest and the soap-clean of his shirt and the sweet of his shampoo like it’s staging an invasion on Izaya’s composure. His heart is still thudding frantically, pounding against his ribcage as if to free itself since the rest of Izaya can’t move; and then Shizuo takes a breath, the sound catching in his throat, and Izaya can hear the stutter of air under the inhale, can pick out the layer of stress from the sound so close to his ear. Shizuo’s hold on him is still awkward, oddly weighted like he can’t quite relax into it; even as Izaya thinks of it Shizuo tightens his arm, pressing harder like he can overcome self-consciousness through force.

Izaya still has his diploma in one hand, still has the weight of the cylinder pressed under his fingertips to occupy the action of his left arm. But that leaves him another, leaves him the passive weight of his right arm hanging motionless at his side, and his thoughts are spinning and his skin is burning but Shizuo isn’t letting him go, is still holding onto him like he’s waiting for something, and after what takes a second and feels like an hour Izaya curls his fingers in against his palm, and lifts his hand, and fits his arm around Shizuo’s waist. There’s a gust of air against his hair, an exhale coming hard on relief, and Shizuo relaxes all at once, his arms around Izaya’s shoulders going heavy with sudden comfort. It takes Izaya another minute -- a span of time to unfold his fingers, another to spread them against the line of Shizuo’s spine -- and even then he doesn’t relax, isn’t sure he can remember how with his pulse fluttering like hummingbird wings at his throat.

He’s never been so warm in all his life.


	42. Clumsy

Izaya should have been more careful.

It’s not that he didn’t expect this. He knows he’ll be fine in Shizuo’s company when he can get it, but the other has been working longer and longer since he gained a passing competency at bartending, and since he graduated Izaya has other important things to do that can’t wait for the occasional hours of company he can obtain on the weekends. He has deals to make, not just the usual relatively safe information trades with Shiki or other members of the Awakusu-kai but with others too, businessmen who usher him into cars that drive circles around city blocks before depositing him where he started after a half hour’s talking in exchange for a _pinging_ notification on his phone for an addition to his bank account, or semi-casual conversations with gang members who do as poor a job at subtle information gathering as they do at hiding the colorful scarves tucked into their collars. And there’s information to be gathered, too -- Izaya can’t sell anything at all if he doesn’t place himself in locations to collect it, and there’s only so much he can glean from forum posts and chat rooms. Gossip is as good as a message board, if he can settle himself on a park bench and stay still long enough that people stop paying attention to him, and observation is just as valuable, enough to let him read the tenor of the city as a whole from the hunch of the shoulders he sees and the relative strain behind the eyes of the yakuza he deals with.

It’s the calm, he thinks, that trips him up. Shiki has taken to reclining back in his chair instead of hunching forward intently, and the gang members in the streets wear their colors without the nervous edginess that says they’re afraid of getting hit for it. Even the members of Blue Square Izaya sees walk past him without hesitating, either not recognizing him or not caring enough to follow up on the crushed-out embers of a years-old conflict. Izaya takes to checking his phone as he walks down the street, easy enough in his safety that any toying he does with the knife in his pocket is out of idle boredom rather than real intent. He’s in the middle of a chatroom session, typing out a reply one-handed while he fits his thumb against the hinge of his knife, when there’s a voice from behind him, a growled “Orihara-kun” with a purr on the name that Izaya’s only ever heard from one person.

Izaya stops immediately. It would have been better to keep walking, to feign disinterest for even a second longer, but the recognition hits him too unexpectedly, and the tension that comes with it is too strong. There’s nothing for it but to acknowledge his own awareness, to take advantage of his stillness and steady his hand on the handle of the knife in his pocket as his thumb pauses on the keypad of his phone.

“Izumii,” he says without looking up from the screen. “Imagine running into you like this.”

“Hey Orihara,” Izumii says. He’s coming up the sidewalk, letting his footfalls come with surprising weight; Izaya supposes it’s an intimidation tactic of sorts, but in practice it lets him know how close Izumii is without turning around and lets him keep his eyes on his phone without taking the time to turn on his heel. He waits until Izumii is just behind him and looming uncomfortably close over his shoulder; then he tabs out of the chatroom, and flicks his phone shut, and turns at the same time he steps back, offering a smile at the other as if their meeting was due to deliberate planning on his part.

“I haven’t seen you in a while,” Izaya says, lilting the words to sugar-coated sweet as he sustains the smile clinging to his lips. “How are your boys doing?”

Izumii’s smile might as well be the edge of a knife. “Ah, they’re great, thanks for asking. I know you musta been worried after your guard dog roughed them up back in the day.”

“I had forgotten all about it,” Izaya says. “I would hope they could take a beating from a high schooler without having much more than their pride hurt.”

Izumii’s laugh is harsh, echoing shrill off the sides of the buildings lining the street as he tips his head back to make a show of his amusement. Izaya keeps watching him without looking away and without letting his smile fade, but he fits his phone back into his pocket and keeps his hand there while he braces his other fingers against the handle of his knife.

“Sure,” Izumii says, finally bringing his grin back down to aim at Izaya again. “Actual fact, they’re interested in some revenge themselves, but I told ‘em you weren’t the right target. It’s not like you got your friend on a leash, right?” Izumii looks up again, making some show of looking up and down the street. “Say, where _is_ your pet monster?”

It takes effort for Izaya to hold his smile on his face. As it is he’s not sure how sincere it looks anymore, isn’t sure how well it’s holding up against the flicker of premonition running icy down his spine. “Oh, he’s always around somewhere.”

“Is he.” Izumii’s voice swings into a sing-songy tone without any softness under it. “Funny, I don’t see him around right now. Did you give him the night off?”

Izaya drags his smile wider, manages a cough of a laugh in the back of his throat. “Even monsters need vacations sometimes.”

“‘Course.” Izumii looks back to Izaya. Izaya can’t see his eyes behind the weight of his sunglasses, but his smile is wide enough to more than make up for the lack of detail in his expression. “Better this way anyway. There’s someone who kinda wants to talk to you and I think he’d rather do it alone.”

Izaya lets his head tilt to the side, lets his smile drag at his face. “I didn’t realize I was so popular. Is this a secret admirer? I hate to say it, but I’m already seeing someone, didn’t you hear?”

Izumii’s laugh is harsh. “Guess you could say that,” he says. “Unfortunately I don’t think he’s too keen on taking no for an answer, even if you did manage to tame Heiwajima.” His eyes flicker up over Izaya’s head for just a moment, his smile catching wider for a moment of true threat. “‘Course, you’re more than welcome to tell him yourself.”

It’s a clumsy distraction. If Izaya weren’t jittery with adrenaline already, if he weren’t distracted by trying to maintain his forced smile, if he weren’t caught by the too-fluid ease of the lie on his own tongue, he would do something different, would hesitate before turning or listen for the rhythm of approaching footsteps. But it seems like a sloppy mistake on Izumii’s part, one in keeping with everything Izaya’s seen of him before, and it’s the mistake he follows, turning his head without thinking to look at the threat of an attacker coming from behind him. The knife slides from his pocket, the blade flicking open under his thumb, but there’s no one there; the sidewalk is so startlingly clear of passersby that Izaya has a moment to wonder what Izumii did to keep the crowd away from this segment of the city. But Izumii is still in front of him, and Izaya’s weight is on the wrong foot, and all he has time to do is to keep turning, to twist his head farther to his right and away from the hammer-heavy swing of Izumii’s fist towards his face. It would have taken the line of his cheekbone or the bridge of his nose if he had turned back; as it is Izumii’s knuckles land against Izaya’s skull, just above his ear, and Izaya has a brief moment to be grateful to the continued movement that saved the bones of his face from shattering.

Then the impact slams into the side of his head, and Izaya’s vision flashes white, and he doesn’t think anything at all.


	43. Rescued

“Is he awake yet?”

“Nah, he’s been out cold for a half-hour.”

“Or he’s faking.” There’s a jolt; a kick, Izaya thinks, though he’s not so stupid as to open his eyes to find out. “I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“Not like it matters.”

“You took his knife, right?”

“Left it in the street where he dropped it. Some kid’s probably picked it up by now.”

“Good.” Another kick, harder this time; Izaya can feel the motion of it jar all the way up his spine and ache painfully against the side of his head, where the impact from Izumii’s fist is still so tender he can feel it throbbing. His head is spinning, even if he can follow the conversation around him well enough to identify the two distinct voices: Izumii’s, for one, and the other unidentifiable except for the raw edge of venom under it to match the unnecessary force of the kicks. “This is exactly how I want him.”

“You owe me for this.” Izumii again.

A crackling laugh. “Like you don’t want some revenge of your own.”

“Sure I do, but you’re the one who wanted him so bad you had to hire someone else to drag him in for you. We had an agreement.”

“Yeah, yeah.” There’s disinterest under the voice; Izaya doesn’t need to open his eyes to picture the scowl this must be winning from Izumii. “You didn’t kill him, did you?”

“Dunno.” There’s the sound of a shrug under the words, as if Izaya’s continued survival is a matter of little interest and less importance. “He was breathing when I brought him in, isn’t that enough?”

“I want him _conscious_.” There’s that vicious edge again, intensity so strong it’s hovering at the edge of mania. “I want him to know why this is happening.”

“Well shit” and there’s heavy footfalls, Izumii approaching across the floor without any attempt to lighten the weight of his footsteps as he goes. “If he’s awake we can find out.”

Izumii moves fast. Izaya heard him approaching, knew the other man must be right next to him, but when rough hands close against his fingers he’s so startled he nearly jumps before he can override the skittish reflex to pull away from danger. He resists the urge, barely, but then Izumii’s hold braces against his smallest finger, and Izumii’s hand wrenches sideways, and Izaya screams before he can think as the bone of his middle knuckle snaps to the force. The agony is brilliant, sun-bright behind his eyes and lancing sharp all down the length of his spine; Izaya doesn’t even realize he’s opened his eyes for a moment, doesn’t realize he’s pulling hard at restraints on his wrists and ankles. There’s just pain, like all his body has become a grounding point for the grinding hurt jolting all the way up his arm, and then Izumii lets him go and Izaya gasps a lungful of air around the thud of pain running through his whole body.

“See,” Izumii says from over his shoulder, sounding deeply satisfied. “Guess he was conscious after all.”

“Fuck you,” the unknown voice says. There’s a figure standing in front of Izaya, a shape outlined in darker shadow even than that of the poorly-lit room, but Izaya can’t make out his face for the dizzy surge of adrenaline in his thoughts or the wet of pained tears in his eyes. “You were just supposed to bring him in, _I_ wanted to be the one to hurt him.”

“So hurt him.” Izumii’s voice is deceptively level; Izaya can only barely make out the purr of satisfaction underneath it that he knows must be there. “He’s still got nine unbroken fingers and a lotta other bones to break, and now you know he’ll feel it. I did you a favor.”

“Fuck you,” the other says again, but it sounds more casual this time, less weighted with sincerity. Izaya can make out the pale of the man’s skin from the shadow of his hair, now; when the figure before him turns to look back he closes his mouth on the whimper of pain still struggling in his throat and manages a lopsided grin for the behalf of the observer he still can’t clearly see.

“Evening,” he manages, and if his voice sounds a little raw, well, at least he’s not giving in to the sobbing weight of pain that the ache in his finger demands. “To whom do I owe the pleasure?”

That gets him a scowl, the shape of a frown so deepset Izaya can see it even while his eyes are still fighting for traction against the darkness. “I knew it,” the voice says, and Izaya’s reaching for recognition but he can’t find it, can’t identify the tenor on the words past the tight-strung fury laid over them. “You don’t even remember me, do you? Even after you ruined my life.”

Izaya manages to muster a laugh at that. “I ruin a lot of lives,” he says as easily as he can. “I guess yours just wasn’t worth remembering.”

“ _Fuck you_ ” and sudden the shape is closer, there are hands closing to weight bruise-hard against Izaya’s forearms and a face vicious with rage inches from his. Izaya doesn’t flinch back, doesn’t let his smile waver even as the other spits words into his face from so close-up he can feel the damp fleck against his mouth. “Fuck _you_ , Orihara, you took _everything_ from me, you took my money and you took my life away, I was a good kid before I fell in with you.” There’s a familiarity to these words, a frantic heat to them that Izaya remembers far from the distance of his memories; he’s reaching for it, straining for the thought with desperate haste, and then the figure draws back by an inch and Izaya can see his features, brown hair and dark moles and a desperate, trembling mouth, and the hand on his right arm lets him go to reach down for the throbbing ache all through his finger.

“I’m going to _kill_ you,” the stranger says, and Izaya has a moment of sudden recognition, the weight of it borne on the years-older lines of that face and the rhythm of that phrase unchanged even by the shadows of cigarettes and stress in that voice, and his eyes go wider for just a moment before Nakura’s hand closes on his ring finger and wrenches it sideways.

Izaya doesn’t scream this time. The pain is different, an ache that stabs up his arm for just a moment before his finger gives itself over to the relief of numbness, but the lack of sensation isn’t a comfort; it feels _wrong_ , with a stomach-churning nausea laid under it that makes Izaya flinch before he can help himself.

“You did it wrong,” Izumii says from Izaya’s shoulder, sounding like he’s on the verge of a laugh. “You gotta push against the bone and not the joint, you just dislocated it ‘stead of breaking it.”

“Shut the _fuck_ up,” Nakura snaps, his voice skidding shrill on adrenaline, and reaches for Izaya’s broken finger instead. The jolt of pain at the contact is enough to start tears in Izaya’s eyes again even before Nakura wrenches against the break, and all the self-control in the world isn’t enough to hold out against the wail of pain that tears itself up from his chest and into the dark space. Nakura’s breathing hard, sounding like he’s winded from doing nothing at all, but Izaya’s own sobbing inhales are drowning out the sound of Nakura’s panting; his thoughts are whirling dizzy in his head as he tries to cling to the sound of Izumii’s laugh, to the rough of Nakura’s touch, to anything at all other than the blinding agony trying to rip whatever humanity he has away to leave him to the raw agony of animal pain. He feels like he’s losing himself, somehow, like he has to cling to consciousness just to remember who he is, as if his memories and motivations might evaporate to be lost forever if he loses his grip on what awareness he has left. His breathing burns in his chest, catches rough in the back of his throat to turn every exhale into a sob, and Izumii is talking, sounding far more distant than he did before.

“He’s not so tough after all.” It sounds like he’s fading in and out, like he’s moving across the room and back in the space between words; Izaya is aware distantly that it must be his hearing that’s wavering but it’s impossible to focus on that detail when his vision is hazing into red and back out to black with each breath he takes. “Acts real vicious with that knife he likes so much but he can’t even handle a little pain.”

“That’s why he keeps that monster with him.” There’s pressure against Izaya’s hand, fingers tightening against one of his unhurt fingers; Izaya chokes on an inhale, straining for coherency and consciousness as his shoulders tense anticipation of pain. “No one can get a hand on him without going through Heiwajima.”

“Not anymore.” Izumii sounds close, now; there’s a hand in Izaya’s hair, fingers fisting on the strands and dragging backwards with painful force to drag Izaya’s head up and back. Izaya can’t fight the motion, can’t attempt to resist it; his head just goes, tilting far back against the chair as his shaky vision spins with the sudden action. “You made it sound hard, but he was just walking down the street all by himself when I caught up to him.”

“Maybe they broke up,” Nakura laughs, and there’s another rush of pain, another flare of sunbright agony before Izaya’s middle finger gives way to that awful numbness that shoots up his arm and settles into horrified _wrong_ in the back of his head. Izaya’s stomach twists, his throat working on reflexive movement as he gags, but with his head up and drawn back it’s too much effort for his body to achieve the movement required to vomit. Izumii’s grinning in his periphery, Nakura’s gasping for air like he’s laughing soundlessly, and Izaya’s whole hand is throbbing with dull pain, the hurt of it overriding his senses with a rhythm that matches the beat of his heart. “Lucky for us, huh?”

“Yeah,” Izumii says, but he sounds distracted. “This is boring, he’s not screaming anymore.” There’s the sound of movement, Izumii doing something Izaya can’t see, and then the click of metal on metal, the sleek sound Izaya knows as a blade unfolding without needing to see the shine of a switchblade. “Try stabbing him, see if you can get him to cry some more.”

“Fucking bastard,” Nakura says, but it’s not aimed at Izumii, and out of the corner of his eye Izaya can see the glint of dim light off metal as Nakura takes the offered knife. “You ruined my _fucking_ life, Orihara, this is all your fault.” His hand at Izaya’s wrist tightens, pressing so hard Izaya can feel the dip of Nakura’s fingers shoving apart the bones of his wrist. “I told you, I told you I was gonna kill you, I’m gonna--”

There’s a sound, a _bang_ so loud Izaya jerks with reflexive shock at the noise. Izumii hisses, an incoherent “ _Fuck_ ” as Nakura’s head turns towards the back of the room. There’s a moment of quiet, a breath of hesitation from all three of them; then a _crash_ , the sound of wood splintering and metal smashing against itself, and Izumii’s hold in Izaya’s hair releases as he shouts “ _Fuck!_ ” and bolts across the floor. Izaya’s head drops forward, he gasps for air without the strain in his throat, but Nakura is still holding to his wrist, still holding the knife out of range even though he’s turned wholly sideways to see whatever is happening at the doorway. Izaya blinks hard, trying to clear his vision of tears and pain alike; he can’t move the hand Nakura’s bracing down, and his other fingers hurt even to look at, but if Nakura turns back, if his hold at Izaya’s wrist loosens for a moment--

There’s a grunt from the other side of the wall Nakura’s shoulders are making in Izaya’s vision, the heavy sound of something hard colliding with the soft give of a body; then another _crash_ , this time from the side of the room as something stacked against the wall shatters and collapses over whatever just hit it. Nakura whimpers something horrified and helpless, and then his hold on Izaya’s wrist is gone and he’s moving away before Izaya can collect himself enough to stretch for whatever he might be able to reach in Nakura’s pocket. He flexes his left hand, straining hard against the ropes tying him down -- and the weight of them slips, the knot or the rope or the chair shifting to grant him a half-inch of leeway. Izaya looks down, attention brought back to the present and away from the red-washed pain in his right hand, and when he twists his arm again the rope slides by another measure, the knot straining and failing to hold. He’s just dragging his hand free of the rope and the sleeve of his jacket at once when there’s a growl of “Who the _fuck_ are you?” from the doorway in a voice too familiar for Izaya to even startle.

He knows who it is. He knew who it had to be before Izumii was thrown against the wall, even before the door crashed inward on itself instead of swinging open against the hinges. There was only ever one person who would come to help him; but even so, with his phone still in his pocket and any request for rescue unsent, Shizuo’s voice is like a beam of sunlight in the middle of storm, wholly unlooked for and unexpected. It stalls Izaya’s motion for a moment, brings his head up as if he has to see before he can believe his ears, and Shizuo’s there, framed in the ruin he made of the doorway and scowling so hard at Nakura Izaya’s impressed the other hasn’t surrendered on the spot.

“You _wouldn’t_ remember me,” Nakura says, his voice jumping shrill and hurt in his throat. One hand is balled into a fist at his side; Izaya wonders for a brief moment if he’s gone completely mad and is going to try to take Shizuo in a fistfight. “ _No one_ remembers me, not after _him_ , not after he _ruined_ me.” Nakura’s shoulders are tensing, his voice skipping higher, breaking in his throat like a string drawn too far. “I should have pushed him off the roof when I had the chance, I should have--”

“I remember you now,” Shizuo growls, his voice dropping to a resonance that goes through all Izaya’s blood like fire, like electricity, like his heart is tuning itself to the rumble of Shizuo’s voice instead of to the demands of his body. “You shouldn’t blame other people for your own mistakes.”

“Fuck _you_ ,” Nakura spits, his head coming up all at once, and then he moves but it’s not the hand formed into a fist; it’s the other, the one lost to the shadows of his coat, and Izaya realizes what he’s holding just in time to scream “ _Shizuo_ ” so loud he can feel it drag his vocal chords raw as Nakura’s wrist twists to stab the knife in his hand into Shizuo’s stomach.

There’s a heartbeat of time, a breathless span of a second that feels like a lifetime, that feels like this might be the whole of Izaya’s existence compressed into this moment, with his feet and broken hand still tied to a chair while a man with a childhood grudge stabs a knife into the best friend Izaya’s ever had. Then Shizuo blinks -- strange, that Izaya can see the motion so clear from across the width of the room -- and looks down to the grip Nakura still has on the handle of the knife.

“The _fuck_ ,” he snaps, and then he reaches out to grab at Nakura’s wrist and drag the knife back. There’s a spill of blood, the wet gloss of liquid catching at the dark fabric of Shizuo’s vest, but he’s moving without any hesitation, without even a flicker of pain across his face as he reaches to fist his hands at the shirt over Nakura’s shoulders. There’s fury in his eyes, a scowl at his mouth, and Nakura whimpers something helplessly afraid in the moment before Shizuo lifts him bodily off his feet and throws him towards the wall so hard Izaya can hear the sound of brick cracking at the impact Nakura makes with the surface. Nakura falls to the floor, as bonelessly unconscious as Izumii on the other side, and Shizuo is coming forward, leaving the two behind him utterly forgotten as he strides across the floor to Izaya.

“ _Shit_ ,” he says, and then he’s dropping to his knees at Izaya’s feet and reaching out to press the weight of a hand at Izaya’s shoulder. “Izaya, _fuck_ , are you okay?”

“What?” Izaya says, the word coming up from somewhere in the blank shock overriding his thoughts.

“Are you _okay_ ,” Shizuo repeats, glaring at him with his eyes darker than Izaya’s ever seen them, and he shakes at Izaya’s shoulder, jolting him against the chair so hard the legs rattle backwards by an inch. “Izaya, what did they _do_ to you?”

“My hand,” Izaya answers, and then, because he has to mention it, “You just got _stabbed_.”

“Huh?” Shizuo blinks at him, frowns for a moment before he looks down. “Oh.” He touches his fingers to the tear in his vest; they come away smeared with red, which he considers for a moment before shrugging. “Guess I’ll have to get some stitches.”

“I can’t believe you,” Izaya manages, not sure where the words are coming from and not sure how to stop them. Shizuo gets his fingers under the rope tying his ankles to the legs of the chair and pulls hard; Izaya can hear the fibers give way as the pressure at his feet eases. “You--you’re really going to walk off a knife wound.”

“I’m not going to _walk it off_ ,” Shizuo tells him, but he’s not looking at Izaya’s face; he’s grimacing at his hand instead, flinching at the angle of the three injured fingers before dragging at the knot with more care than he showed to the rope at Izaya’s feet. “I’ll take care of it later. What _happened_?”

“I think they’re dislocated,” Izaya says, hearing the words echo distantly in his head as he frames them. “He--he was right, you really are a monster.”

Shizuo growls. “Would you rather I collapsed and left you tied up to wait for them to come to?” He looks up, the corner of his mouth taut on almost-amusement, but his expression is wavering in Izaya’s vision, everything fading in and out with every breath he takes. The tension vanishes, Shizuo’s mouth goes soft for a moment, and then “ _Izaya_ ” and a hand against Izaya’s cheek, a thumb pressing hard against his face as fingers dig in against his hair. “Shit, Izaya, don’t pass out on me.”

“I’m not,” Izaya says, and blinks hard, dragging himself back to reality through sheer force of will. His hand hurts, is aching a bright blaze of pain up his entire arm, but Shizuo’s hand is hot against his skin, a counterpoint of comfort for the agony in his fingers. “I’m fine.”

“You’re _not_ fine,” Shizuo says, and his hand pulls away again, leaving Izaya to breathe deep and blink at the wall while a hold like painless shackles closes around his wrist. Izaya can feel the catch of Shizuo’s blood sticking their skin together. “Your hand is _fucked_.”

“I know,” Izaya says to the dim-lit wall over the top of Shizuo’s head. There’s dust hanging in the air, the weight of crumbling masonry making itself known from Izumii and Nakura’s respective impacts with the sides of what is probably a basement, given the lack of windows. “Thanks for the reminder.”

“Shit,” Shizuo says, and Izaya’s never heard him sound like that, like there’s a vibration caught in his throat and trembling under the sound of his words. When Izaya looks down Shizuo’s head is bowed; all Izaya can see of him is the yellow of his hair pale in the dusty light. “You. We have to fix these.”

Izaya swallows back the tension in his throat. “I know,” he says. He can’t move any but his index finger and thumb; he tries to make his eyes focus on the misaligned bones of his hand but his attention keeps skidding, refusing to take in the wrongness of the shape as a part of his body. Izaya stares at Shizuo’s hair instead, blinks hard as he steadies his breathing in his chest. “Let me go, I can do it.”

“Don’t be fucking _stupid_ ,” Shizuo tells him, and he’s looking up, his eyes bright with damp but his scowl reassuringly familiar, a foundation for the freefall Izaya’s heart tries to go into. “You can’t relocate your own fingers, you’ll pass out.”

“What do you suggest instead?” Izaya asks. The numbness is spreading up his hand, the stomach-churning nausea of the pain settling into his stomach like it’s becoming a part of him. “Just leave them to swell until I can get to Shinra’s?”

“Fuck,” Shizuo says again, and then he’s looking down, and Izaya knows what he’s going to do even before Shizuo tightens his hold against his wrist. “I’ll do it.”

“Right,” Izaya says, his head going helium-light, his thoughts spinning out against themselves as his heart tries to beat itself out of his chest. “That’s a great idea, Shizu-chan, just go ahead and accidentally tear my fingers off, that’s. That’s gonna work great.”

“Don’t call me that,” Shizuo tells him without looking up, and then he’s closing his hold against Izaya’s middle finger and Izaya can feel a rush of nauseating pain run up his arm, the sensation twisted and wrong as it grinds against misplaced nerves. Shizuo takes a breath, lets it out all at once; and then he moves, fast, before Izaya has a chance to brace himself against the pain. There’s a jolt against his aching knuckle, the grind of bone-on-bone as Shizuo pulls, and pain, _agony_ , sharp and hot and spilling all the way up Izaya’s arm to rush down the length of his spine. There’s fire in his chest, red behind his eyes, and sound on his tongue, a scream of pain turned over on the unbreakable strength of Shizuo’s hold at his hand to come out low and dark and hot from his throat. Izaya’s back arches, his good arm tenses against the chair; and then Shizuo lets his hold go and he sags back to the support, trying to remember how to breathe around the blinding rush of arousal that just tore through him. His hands are shaking, broken and whole together, even his legs trembling helplessly against the support of the floor, and then Shizuo breathes “Izaya” and Izaya looks at him before he can stop himself, meeting the shocked stare Shizuo is turning on him while his own mouth is still open on the breathless gasp that accompanied the heat in his veins. For a moment they stare at each other, Shizuo’s expression washed clear of concern or anger alike by the force of his shock and Izaya’s still slack with the heat trembling through him; and then Izaya looks away, turns his head to the side and swallows hard in an attempt to level off his voice by force of will.

“Do the other one,” he says, staring at the wall without seeing anything, without being aware of anything other than the sound of Shizuo’s breathing and the heat of Shizuo’s hold against his wrist.

Izaya can hear Shizuo swallow. “Izaya--”

“Fix it,” Izaya says again, harder this time. “Or let me go and I’ll do it myself.”

There’s a pause, a heartbeat of hesitation; then Izaya pulls, trying to wrench his hand free of Shizuo’s grasp, and Shizuo hisses and tightens his hold to keep him still.

“No,” he says. When Izaya looks back Shizuo’s looking down at his hand, and the color of his eyes is hidden by the fall of his hair. “I’ll do it.” His hold against Izaya’s wrist presses hard, fingers bruising at the skin over the pattern of rope already there, and then he’s closing his hand at Izaya’s ring finger, bracing his hold steady against the offset joint. Izaya can hear Shizuo take a breath, can hear him let it out just as deliberately. “You ready?”

Izaya tips his head back, shuts his eyes. “Yes,” he says, and grits his teeth against the moan that spills up his throat as Shizuo drags his finger back into alignment. His back curves again, the involuntary motion rocking his weight forward off the chair, and even gritted teeth aren’t enough to stop the whimper of arousal on Izaya’s tongue anymore than force of will can stop the rush of heat that flushes him instantly hard against the inside of his jeans. But then the joint slides back where it belongs, and there’s a rush of relief up Izaya’s arm, and Shizuo’s too-tight hold is easing immediately, the force of his strength giving way to deliberate care as if to make up for the wash of pain that came before.

For a minute there’s quiet; all Izaya can hear is the faint sound of Shizuo’s breathing laid over the rush of blood in his ears from his too-fast heartbeat. Shizuo’s hand is still against his wrist, the heat of the other’s touch still pressing against the double layer of bruises rising under the skin; Izaya can feel the weight of the contact throbbing up his arm like an echo of the blinding pain of relocating his fingers.

Izaya doesn’t know if Shizuo would speak if he waited long enough, and he doesn’t try to find out. He just waits until the heat in his chest has eased the worst of its hold, until the blood in his veins is only radiant and not scalding, and then he takes a breath and says “I need to see Shinra,” framing the words to sound even before he opens his eyes. Shizuo is watching him, his eyes dark and his mouth soft; he blinks as Izaya speaks, his gaze flickering down to Izaya’s swollen hand, and then he nods and clears his throat before he finally draws his hands away from Izaya’s wrist and finger and moves to get to his feet.

“Celty’s outside,” Shizuo says, reaching out to offer the support of his left hand instead of his right. Izaya reaches up to take it and Shizuo pulls him to his feet as easily as if Izaya weighs nothing at all, as effortlessly as if he’s not dripping blood from the tear at his vest to splash against the floor. “She can get you back to Shinra’s faster than we can walk.”

“Yeah?” Izaya curls his injured hand in against himself, fitting the fast-swelling bruises along his knuckles under the open edge of his jacket. Shizuo’s still holding his hand, pressing his fingers against Izaya’s wrist like he thinks the other might collapse without the extra support. “And you’re going to what, exactly, walk across town bleeding from a knife wound?”

“It’s not a big deal,” Shizuo tells him. “It’s not even bleeding that much.”

“Monster,” Izaya says, but the insult twists on his tongue, gains warmth somewhere from the pressure in his chest and the dizzy spin of his thoughts to come out as gentle as if he intended the word as an endearment.

“Brat,” Shizuo says. His voice sounds weird, like it’s turning itself inside-out or like it’s jostling against the inside of his chest, and Izaya shuts his eyes instead of looking up to see the way Shizuo is looking at him. It’s better in the dark, easier without sight, and then Shizuo takes a step in and his arm comes up and around Izaya’s shoulders, the weight of his hold pulling the other in so their clasped hands are pinned between them.

“Fuck,” Shizuo growls against the top of Izaya’s head, the word ruffling against the other’s hair so Izaya can feel it like a touch. “You really need a bodyguard, Izaya.”

Izaya’s laugh catches him unawares; it pushes up past the frantic thud of his heart and against the rhythm of his breathing, spilling out over his tongue to soak into Shizuo’s vest like the blood still seeping into the edges of the knife-torn fabric. He has to close his mouth on the sound as it curls into hysteria, as the pain from his hand shoots up his arm like a reminder of his current situation; he takes a moment, takes a breath weighted with the smell of smoke and the taste of cigarettes, and lets it go again so it can take the tension in his throat with it.

“Yeah,” he says, the words muffled against the pattern of Shizuo’s heartbeat. “I really think I might.”


	44. Hazy

Izaya’s hand hurts.

It’s a distant awareness. Shinra was waiting when they came in the front door of his apartment, ready with a syringe of something before Celty had even made it through the door behind Shizuo and Izaya; he barely spared a glance for Shizuo before reaching for Izaya’s arm to inject him with what Izaya realizes must be pain relievers as soon as he feels numbness settling into his mind like a haze. Shinra’s examination of him is cursory, just enough to verify that he’s not actively bleeding anywhere, and then Izaya is relegated to one of the chairs at the edge of the living room while Shinra tells Shizuo to take his shirt off and lie down across the couch. Celty’s made it into the house, now, is hovering over the back of the couch with her shoulders hunched into concern, but Izaya is struggling to pay attention to her; it’s hard to pay attention to anything, actually, as if his head is filled with white noise too faint to be heard and too pervasive to be ignored. Shizuo strips his shirt off with more ease and less pain than Izaya expected him to demonstrate; there’s blood across his stomach but it’s dark, clotted into the rust-red of drying blood rather than the bright crimson of an open wound. It’s oddly reassuring to see, even though Izaya knows Shizuo _ought_ to be far more injured than he appears to be, and then Shinra comes over to push Shizuo down with businesslike efficiency and the other’s cheerful commentary overrides all Izaya’s focus to pull it clinging to the sound of Shinra’s voice.

“This really isn’t that bad,” Shinra’s saying now, over the noise of Shizuo hissing at whatever Shinra’s doing to disinfect the injury. “You got off lucky with just a scratch.”

“It’s not just a scratch,” Izaya says from the chair. His voice sounds strange, echoes oddly in the back of his head when he speaks; he can taste the words on his tongue like some foreign spice. “He got _stabbed_ , it must have been inches deep.”

Shinra’s hand waves in Izaya’s periphery; Izaya’s vision catches on the movement, clinging to it like some kind of a tether for reality. “This is Shizuo we’re talking about. It’d take a lot more than that to really hurt him.”

“That _does_ hurt,” Shizuo protests. “Can’t you be a little gentler?”

“Take some ibuprofen when I’m done,” Shinra says without a trace of apology in his tone. “I just need to patch you up so I can see what’s wrong with Izaya.”

“His hand is fucked up.” Shizuo’s voice sounds strange, faint like it’s coming from a long way away but low enough that Izaya can feel it humming down his spine. He shuts his eyes and closes off the visual distraction of Shinra’s efficient movements so he can just hear Shizuo’s voice. “They broke his finger and dislocated two others. We got them back in place but--”

“You should have left it alone,” Shinra cuts in, the cheerful chirp of his voice neatly breaking off Shizuo’s statement. “His fingers might have been broken and moving them would have made them worse.”

“I couldn’t leave them.” Shizuo sounds frustrated, the edge under his voice persisting even as he hisses hurt as whatever Shinra is doing. “He said he’d straighten them himself if I didn’t.”

“He would have passed out from the pain,” Shinra says with absolute certainty. “ _You_ could probably relocate your own fingers if you needed to, but you’re unusual.”

“Monster,” Izaya says, but it’s too soft for the other two to hear, or they’re not listening; in any case neither of them responds to the sound of the word he can feel thrumming like a struck bell inside his chest.

“I gave him a painkiller, he’ll be fine for now. I’ll splint his fingers as soon as I’m done with you,” Shinra says. “Let me just finish these stitches and then I’ll get the bandage on.”

“Are you sure he’ll be okay?” Shizuo asks. He’s speaking low, like the words are a whisper, but Izaya can hear the sound of his breathing from across the room, can almost imagine he can hear the sound of Shizuo’s heartbeat. Shinra says something but it’s not important, not really; Izaya ignores it, listens instead to the growl of Shizuo’s voice, to the edge of emotion under it, to the grate in his throat as he drags consonants out over his throat. His voice is getting louder, Shinra’s saying something distantly, and then “ _Izaya_ ,” loud and startlingly near, and Izaya opens his eyes just as a hand closes on his shoulder. Shizuo’s leaning in over him, his eyes wide and dark on panic; Izaya can see the shift of motion across his bare shoulders as tension eases out of him.

“What?” Izaya snaps, or tries to snap, except that Shinra’s pushing against the side of his head and the motion distracts away the edge under his voice.

“I thought you had passed out,” Shizuo tells him. His hand at Izaya’s shoulder goes gentle; Izaya can feel the weight of it down the whole length of his uninjured arm, like Shizuo is stealing the strength from his body just by contact. “Are you okay?”

“Here,” Shinra says before Izaya has a chance to answer. He pushes at the other’s hair hard enough that Izaya’s head turns without his intention; he’s left blinking at the wall while Shinra’s fingers trace out the outline of pain at his temple. “They must have hit him before you got there.”

“That hurts,” Izaya informs him.

“What happened?” Shizuo asks. His hand is tightening at Izaya’s shoulder again, pressing intensity into the line of the other’s arm. “What did they _do_ to you, Izaya?”

“He _hit_ me,” Izaya says, achieving something like a hiss of irritation on the words. “Izumii knocked me out on the street and took me to wherever that place was. He broke my finger and then Nakura dislocated the other two and then you came through the doorway like a hero.” He cuts his eyes sideways, musters up a glare to meet Shizuo’s concern. “Do you want me to review the rest of it, too, or can you remember that on your own?”

“You were knocked out?” Shinra asks before Shizuo has a chance to form an answer. “How long?”

“I don’t _know_ ,” Izaya says. “I was _unconscious_.”

“Celty,” Shinra calls. “What time did you find Izaya’s knife on the sidewalk?”

“It wasn’t long after that,” Shizuo puts in while Celty shifts behind Izaya to type out a response. “I probably found them ten minutes later.”

“Hm.” Shinra sounds steady, faint curiosity clear in the back of his throat. Izaya’s head hurts. “What time did you run into Izumii?”

“I’m not sure,” Izaya admits, straining through memories hazy with inattention for the timestamps on forum posts, for the backlit glow of his cellphone screen. “A quarter after eight, probably.”

“He was out for at least twenty minutes,” Shinra declares. His hand finally draws away from Izaya’s head; Izaya turns back to face the audience leaning in over him, but Shinra’s still eying the rising bruise of Izumii’s punch like it’s some fascinating puzzle and Shizuo’s looking at Shinra instead of at Izaya, his eyes dark and mouth soft on focused concern that does something strange to Izaya’s stomach as if he’s the one who was stabbed and not Shizuo. “Definitely concussed, though it’ll be hard to check for dizziness and disorientation until the pain meds wear off. Did he have trouble walking on your way over here?”

“No,” Shizuo says; then, with alarming insight: “Not that he let me see,” and Izaya grimaces again. “Should we take him to the hospital?”

“No,” Izaya says, but no one looks at him. He can feel his jaw tensing on irritation. “It’s _fine_.”

“He’ll probably be fine,” Shinra allows, and it’s only then that Shizuo’s newly tense hold at Izaya’s shoulder eases. Izaya glares at him but the irritation goes unseen; even in his own head it feels foggy, weighted with effort he doesn’t usually notice. “He should have someone keep an eye on him tonight, though.”

“I’ll do it,” Shizuo says immediately, before Izaya has time to collect his thoughts into the clarity required for a response. “I’ll stay the night at his place.”

“ _Hey_ ,” Izaya snaps, and both Shizuo and Shinra finally look at him. Izaya frowns at Shizuo, holding to the shape of his irritation even against the slurring fog of the numbing medication running through his veins. “Who said I wanted to be looked after?”

“It’s a matter of--” Shinra starts.

“It doesn’t matter,” Shizuo cuts him off. He’s not looking at Shinra at all; his attention is fixed on Izaya, the dark of his eyes turned full on the other. His hand is still on Izaya’s shoulder; Izaya can feel Shizuo’s fingers shift against his collarbone. “I’m taking you home and I’m not leaving until you’re okay.” Shizuo’s jaw is set, steady on the strength of certainty instead of anger; Izaya can’t find the space in his focus to blink, can barely manage to swallow back the fluttering tension that tries to break free of his throat.

“I see,” he manages, his voice only very barely trembling. “So my opinion doesn’t matter?”

“Not this time,” Shizuo tells him.

“Fine,” Izaya says, and leans back deliberately into the chair, the motion enough to knock Shizuo’s hold at his shoulder loose. He retrieves amusement from the hum of white-noise distraction in his thoughts, offers a smile to the other; Shizuo’s jaw eases, his expression going softer even before Izaya says, “I suppose I’ll let you have your way this time.”

Shinra’s clap makes them both jump; Izaya’s attention skips away from Shizuo’s gaze and down, to where Shinra is beaming at him from his kneel at the side of the chair. “Good!” he chirps. “Glad that’s sorted out. Let me see your hand and I’ll get you splinted up before the pain meds wear off.” Shinra takes Izaya’s hand before he has a chance to offer it, bracing his hold against the unhurt wrist with remarkable care for the injured fingers; Izaya can still feel the dull throbbing hurt in the joints and along the broken bone in his pinky, but it’s distant, as if it’s pain more remembered or anticipated than happening in the present. He leaves his fingers to Shinra and to the splints and bandages Celty is bringing over from the other room; it’s more interesting instead to turn his head as Shizuo shifts next to him, moving to sit alongside Izaya’s chair instead of leaning in over it. The weight of his hand at Izaya’s shoulder eases, the pressure of it pulling away as Shizuo moves, but he reaches back out as he sits to lean against the arm of the chair, his fingers finding the slack weight of Izaya’s unhurt left hand against the arm of the chair and curling into a hold around the fingers. It feels like a cage, feels like armor; for a long moment Izaya just stares at the tension of Shizuo’s fingers around his, far more distracted by the gentle friction of the other’s hold on his hand than by the far-off ache of Shinra pulling Izaya’s bruised fingers into alignment as he sets splints around them. Shizuo doesn’t move his hand, and he doesn’t look back to Izaya’s face, and as Shinra closes his hold on Izaya’s pinky to urge the bone back into alignment Izaya shifts his left thumb to pin Shizuo’s littlest finger close against the weight of his hand.

The pain of the broken bone is distant, the crystalline edges of it lost to the medicated haze settling over Izaya’s thoughts. But the ache of Shizuo’s touch cuts past the fog of the medication in Izaya’s blood, sidestepping the barrier of numbness from whatever Shinra gave him, and Izaya doesn’t pull away from the hurt.


	45. Capitulate

“Izaya.” The voice is low, nearly a whisper as if it’s aiming for a softness that is completely undermined by the weight of the touch that lands at Izaya’s shoulder to shake gently against him. “Izaya, wake up.”

“Fuck,” Izaya says against his pillow and without turning his head up to the glow of the overhead light. “Go away.”

“Izaya.” Shizuo’s speaking louder, now, his voice taking on an edge of intensity. “Izaya, turn over.”

“I’m _awake_ ,” Izaya snaps, and lifts his hand to push away Shizuo’s hold at his shoulder. When he turns his head Shizuo’s leaning in over the edge of his bed, watching him with the same anxious intensity he’s demonstrated the last three times he’s pulled Izaya to wakefulness. “I don’t think I even fell asleep that time.”

“Sorry,” Shizuo says, but the sound is more automatic than apologetic. “Shinra told me to wake you up every hour.”

“I _know_ ,” Izaya informs him. “I was _there_ , in spite of you two talking over my head like I didn’t exist.” He turns away again, pressing his face into the pillow as he groans. “At least if I were in a coma I wouldn’t have to feel my hand.”

Shizuo huffs a sigh. “I can get you some more pain meds if you want.”

Izaya shakes his head into the pillow. “No,” he says against the resistance. “I don’t want them.” His fingers _do_ ache, they’re throbbing with a bone-deep hurt that is bleeding all the way up his arm to chase away even the possibility of rest, but Izaya’s only just starting to feel like he’s in his own body again, and he’d rather take the pain than the uncanny distance from reality the medicine gave him.

“Fine,” Shizuo says. “Let me know if you change your mind.” He doesn’t even sound angry; there’s just a weight on his voice, resignation or maybe exhaustion, now that Izaya thinks about it. Izaya turns his head on the pillow to meet Shizuo’s gaze, but Shizuo’s not looking at him anymore; he’s gazing into the distance, his eyes fixed on the wall of Izaya’s bedroom as if there’s anything there to see at all. He’s sitting on the floor alongside the bed with the wall at his back; his shoulders barely fit into the line of the t-shirt he borrowed, the biggest Izaya owns that is still too small for Shizuo’s frame but at least better than the bloodstained clothes he had on before. His mouth is soft with inattention, his gaze weighted at the corners; Izaya can see the suggestion of shadows under his eyes, can see the purple-blue of exhaustion laying itself into visibility underneath the dark of Shizuo’s lashes.

“You can go to sleep if you want,” he says without moving on the bed. Shizuo blinks and shakes himself back into focus; when he looks back at Izaya his vision is a little clearer, a little more present than it was. “I’m not going to be able to get to sleep anyway, there’s no point in you staying awake to babysit me.”

“Yeah,” Shizuo drawls. “And then there’s no one to notice if you pass out and don’t wake back up.” His mouth catches on the shape of a smile, his teeth flash white in a momentary grin. “It’s one night, I’ll be fine.”

“You got stabbed,” Izaya reminds him, but it’s more for the show of the thing than in any real attempt to convince Shizuo. “Or do you not need sleep to heal? Do you even need sleep at all?”

“Shut up,” Shizuo tells him. “I sleep.” He reaches out to push against Izaya’s head; his fingers catch and ruffle against the other’s hair. “Like you should.”

“My fingers hurt.”

“I know,” Shizuo says. “Try to sleep anyway.”

Izaya knows he won’t be able to. There’s no point in even closing his eyes, not when he can feel the lancing hurt from his fingers ache up into his shoulder with every beat of his heart. But he doesn’t protest aloud, and Shizuo doesn’t speak again; he just leans back against the wall at his shoulders, letting himself sag against the support as his fingers draw through Izaya’s hair and linger for a moment against the back of the other’s neck before falling away to his lap again. Izaya can feel the aftershocks of that touch run all through him, can feel painless fire lace through the marrow of his bones, and for a moment he does shut his eyes, just to focus his efforts on repressing the shudder of shivering adrenaline that tries to ripple through his body.

“Izaya.”

Izaya opens his eyes again. Shizuo is staring at the far wall, his gaze distant and unfocused to match the slack weight of his hands in his lap. Izaya stares at the curve of Shizuo’s nose, at the catch of his hair into a curl just behind his ear; then he looks down to the open angle of Shizuo’s fingers and pins his attention to the relative safety of watching the shift of tendons just against the inside of the other’s wrists. He can see Shizuo’s fingers flex, can see his hands collect strain in the pause of silence. “Izaya?”

“I’m awake,” Izaya says without looking up.

Shizuo’s head turns; Izaya can see the shift of yellow hair in his periphery. His fingers tense, tighten, press friction against his palms. “You’re going to keep working as an informant, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Izaya says, lightly, without any trace in his voice of the shudder of pain that’s running up his arm from his fingers tensing in unconscious echo of Shizuo’s movement. “Working on the fringes of legality pays amazingly well, you know.”

Shizuo huffs a sound that might be a laugh, were it any louder. “There’s no way your expenses are _that_ high.”

“No,” Izaya agrees. “Not yet.” He shifts against his pillow, lifts his good arm to angle across the sheets under him so he can rest his head against it and gain an extra inch of height before looking back to meet Shizuo’s gaze. “My new apartment isn’t going to come cheap, though.”

Shizuo’s mouth tugs at the corner, threatening a smile in spite of the tension still in his fingers and the exhaustion still shadowing his eyes. “You have an apartment?”

“I will,” Izaya tells him. “It’s mine at the end of the month. Two floors and plate-glass windows running along one whole side.”

Shizuo’s smile breaks free of his restraint, then. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not.” Izaya shifts his head into a more comfortable angle against his arm, flashes the outline of a grin for Shizuo’s consideration. “I’ll show you once I’m moved in and you’ll have to apologize for doubting me.”

“Uh huh,” Shizuo says, still sounding skeptical. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Apologize _profusely_ ,” Izaya clarifies. “I’m your best friend, I can’t believe you don’t trust me.”

“It’s _because_ I’m your best friend that I know better,” Shizuo tells him. “You’re trying to tell me you bought yourself a two-story apartment and you haven’t bothered to hire a bodyguard yet?”

Izaya shrugs one-shouldered. “It didn’t seem like a pressing issue,” he demurs. “I’m sure I’ll have the time to find someone decent while my fingers heal.”

Shizuo’s forehead creases, his easy smile flickering and fading like he’s forgotten to hold it in place. For a moment he stares at Izaya in silence, his eyes dark and his mouth soft; Izaya can see his fingers tense, can see the flex of Shizuo’s knuckles as he presses his fingernails hard against his palm. Then his hold eases all at once, his fingers falling slack as he heaves a sigh, and Izaya has a moment of preternatural certainty a breath before Shizuo tilts his head back to the wall and sighs, “I’ll have to finish out the month at the bar before I quit.”

Izaya is glad that Shizuo’s not looking at him. It means he has a moment to let the rush of happiness hit him and ease past the first shocked delight, means that he has a heartbeat to turn his face down towards his arm to hide the worst of his too-warm expression in the shadows of the blankets under him.

“Just like that?” he asks, once he can trust his voice to pass for calm while it’s half-muffled against the soft of the pillow. “And right when you were only poisoning half your customers.”

Shizuo shoves against Izaya’s head. “Don’t be a brat,” he orders, his voice rough in the back of his throat as his fingers catch and drag into the other’s hair as Izaya shifts to look back at him. “I’m pretty good now.”

“Sure you are,” Izaya tells him, feeling his smile pull irrepressible against his lips as Shizuo’s outstretched arm casts a shadow over his features. “Keep practicing and soon you might even make it a whole night without breaking a glass.”

“Shut _up_ ,” Shizuo growls, but it’s only a mockery of anger, there’s more of a laugh on his tongue than anything else. “If you think I’m that terrible at bartending isn’t it for the best I do something else?”

“Sure,” Izaya agrees, feeling his chest aching on unfamiliar warmth, as if his heart is forcing itself hard against the cage of his ribs and fighting for freedom from the restriction of his body. “I’m just glad you’ve finally accepted your destined career as hired muscle.”

“Yeah, you’re making it seem real appealing,” Shizuo tells him, and Izaya has to laugh, the sound spilling from his lips before he has a chance to close his mouth on the response or turn his head down against his arm. Shizuo coughs himself into an echo, the lower range of his voice offsetting the breathless catch of Izaya’s, and for a moment they’re both just laughing, the strain of the day and of the situation and of the conversation easing from Izaya’s chest and shoulders until he can take a real inhale again, until when he falls back into silence he can feel his whole body sag heavy into the bed with the weight of exhaustion he hasn’t been able to feel past the tension of stress. He can hear Shizuo’s exhale, can see the angle of the other’s shoulders relax back against the wall; when Izaya looks up through his hair Shizuo’s eyes are shut, his cheeks flushed to pink and his mouth still quirked on a smile.

“You should be happy,” he says, sighing himself into more of a recline as he shifts his shoulders against the support. His fingers come back up to Izaya’s hair, slide down against the strands to ghost friction just against the back of the other’s neck before coming back up to restart the glide of their idle motion. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

Izaya knows what Shizuo means. The implication is clear from the conversation, clear in the growl of attempted irritation in Shizuo’s throat. But he can feel Shizuo’s fingers pressing gentle against his scalp, can feel the shivering friction of the contact unwinding along the curve of his spine like it’s lightning seeking the earth, and when the word _yes_ threatens on his tongue he closes his mouth on the sound rather than let the warmth of sincerity in his throat give him away. He swallows it back instead, tucks the pressure of the sound back inside the cage of his chest, and when he parts his lips to speak it’s to say “Be quiet, Shizu-chan,” with as much offhand teasing as he can muster. “I’m trying to sleep.”

Shizuo’s laugh is low, purring in the back of his throat until Izaya imagines he can feel it in the fingers in his hair, imagines he can see it shudder across the line of Shizuo’s shoulders at the wall. “I will,” Shizuo tells him. “Get some rest, Izaya.”

Izaya shuts his eyes to the dark of Shizuo’s lashes lying against the shadows under his eyes, turns his face down against the angle of his raised arm to shelter his eyes from the glow of the overhead light. His hand is still tensed, the pressure in his fingers aching every time he shifts them; Izaya flexes his hand once more, straining for as much minimal motion as he can achieve with the splints in place just to feel the sharp sting of aggravated injury in his knuckles. Then Shizuo’s fingers thread through his hair, trailing steady comfort in their wake, and Izaya lets his shoulders sag, and lets his hand relax, and lets the warmth of the touch against his hair urge him into exhausted unconsciousness.


	46. Familiar

“I don’t fucking _believe_ this.”

Izaya grins at the back of Shizuo’s shoulders. “I told you I was telling the truth.”

“That wasn’t going to make me listen to you,” Shizuo tells him, but he’s not turning around, and even the growl under his words is absentminded. “This is _unbelievable_.”

“Oh good,” Izaya says. Shizuo steps farther into his apartment and he follows by just enough to let the door shut behind him so he can slouch back against it. “If it’s the apartment you object to and not my own trustworthiness my injured feelings may someday recover.”

“As if you have feelings at all,” Shizuo fires back, but he’s wandering away across the span of the apartment and moving towards the sheet of glass that makes up an entire side of the space. “How do you keep these clean?”

“I pay someone,” Izaya says immediately. “Or I will. I’ve only been moved in for a day and a half, Shizuo, I haven’t yet managed to completely sully everything in sight.” That gets him a glance back, a flash of a grin as Shizuo huffs a laugh, and Izaya smirks back before Shizuo turns to continue pacing out the width of the apartment.

“I didn’t know you had this much stuff,” Shizuo tells him as he reaches out to touch the spines of the books arrayed in neat rows along the shelves, as he move around the shape of the overlarge couch in sight of the windows and the computer desk arranged directly in front of them. “Where were you keeping all this?”

“I bought it.” Izaya folds his hands behind his back, clasps his left hand around the fingers of his right; it’s a motion that’s losing its meaning, with all but his pinky finger fully healed and even that only offering an occasional twinge of pain, but he does it anyway, tightening his grip until he can feel a shudder of sensation run up his spine and tense across his shoulders. “I had it delivered and unpacked before I moved in. Most of this is as new to me as it is to you.”

Shizuo frowns, his head tilted back to consider the balcony that makes up the half-floor above them, the railing that runs along the edge of the almost-loft that makes for a bedroom. “That must be weird,” he says, still with his head tilted back so the words come out strange and strained in his throat. “Like you moved into a stranger’s home.”

Izaya shrugs, the motion falling unseen into the moment before Shizuo looks back down to where he’s standing by the door. “It’s not that big a deal,” he says. “I own it now, it’ll become familiar soon enough. Besides, some things are still the same.”

Shizuo blinks. Something shifts in his expression -- his eyes going a little darker, maybe, or his mouth going a little softer, or maybe just a flicker of a crease falling across his forehead -- and Izaya can suddenly feel the aftertaste of his own words on his tongue, can feel sincerity bitter and clinging like poison at his lips. The room around them seems suddenly weighty with the tells of all the things he’s bought, all the things he owns but that aren’t his forming a shadow to cast everything that remains into brighter light: himself, by the door, with the soft weight of his favorite jacket draped around his shoulders, and Shizuo in the middle of the room, looking at him with something shadowed in his eyes that Izaya can’t stand to see.

“We should play a game,” he says instead, filling the silence with the singsongy lilt of his own voice as he turns away from Shizuo’s stare and turns away from the silence between them, unfolding from the barrier of his front door to pace out behind the back of his new couch instead. Izaya perches against the top edge of the furniture, kicks his feet over the back and turns to face towards the coffee table and the shogi board set with catalog-picture care on the shelf below it; by the time Shizuo has crossed the distance to the other corner of the couch Izaya’s slid off the edge to sit on the soft of the dark grey cushions instead, is retrieving the board to push haphazardly across the table without care for the way the corner of the board catches and scores a faint mark against the surface. “You remember the rules, don’t you?”

“For what?” Shizuo asks. He drops to the couch with careless grace; one arm ends up along the back of the support, one leg kicks out wide alongside the coffee table. He makes the furniture look like it’s his, like he’s been sprawling across Izaya’s living room all his life, and Izaya has to look away before the smile threatening his mouth breaks free of his control. “Actual shogi or the weird games you make up for yourself?”

Izaya shrugs one-shouldered. “Either.” There’s a container of shogi tiles too, set far under the table; he pulls it free, upends it over the table and the board together without care for the way the too-aggressive motion sends a handful of tiles skidding over the edge and to the floor. Shizuo grimaces and leans forward to collect a pair of tiles from the floor; Izaya leaves him to it, tucking his feet up under him instead of reaching to help pick up the fallen pieces. “Just normal shogi, if you insist on being boring.”

“I’m not being boring,” Shizuo tells him as he starts to array the scattered pieces into order across the board. “You make up rules just to win otherwise.”

“That’s not true,” Izaya tells him. “It’s no fun to win unless there’s real competition.”

“Uh huh,” Shizuo says. He stretches out for the far side of the board and starts aligning Izaya’s pieces for him while Izaya smiles at the top of Shizuo’s head and shifts to kick his feet out across the long side of the couch. “I’d believe that if you didn’t make sure to win every game we ever play.”

“Aww,” Izaya drawls, and swings his leg sideways to press his ankle against Shizuo’s hip. Shizuo doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even look up; he just reaches out without looking to grab Izaya’s foot and hold it still, like he thinks he’s in danger of a harder kick and is stopping the possibility. “I’m sorry, have I been bruising your delicate ego?” He reaches out over the neatly-arrayed board to push one of his pieces forward without looking to confirm where it ends up. “I can let you win more often, if that would make you feel better.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo growls at him. “I’m going to crush you and then you’ll have to take that back.”

“Mm,” Izaya hums, grinning at Shizuo as he leans back across the couch. Shizuo’s still holding against his ankle; he doesn’t let go even when he reaches out to make his own opening move. “Or I’ll let you crush me. You can never really be sure you won on your own merit, Shizu-chan.”

“You’d never _let_ me win anything,” Shizuo says. “Don’t call me that.”

Izaya grins. “Don’t you like it?” He reaches across himself to move his piece with his left hand. “You can call me whatever you want, you know.”

“I like your _name_ ,” Shizuo informs him. “You don’t need to give me a cutesy nickname to prove we’re friends.” He’s frowning at Izaya’s hand, not watching the layout of the board or the way the other’s looking at him; Izaya can see concern creasing itself across the other’s forehead, can feel Shizuo’s hold against his ankle going slack with distraction even as the weight of his touch lingers to brace Izaya in place. “Is your hand okay?”

Izaya’s fingers curl in on themselves, his right hand forming itself into a fist involuntarily; he can feel the motion twinge up his arm, a prickle of remembered pain more than the immediate reality of it. “It’s fine,” he says. “It’s just habit.”

Shizuo looks up from Izaya’s hand to his face. His eyebrows are drawn together on concern, his mouth soft on the weight of his frown; when he asks, “Are you sure?” there’s more skepticism than curiosity in his tone.

“Perfectly sure,” Izaya says, and lifts his right hand to wiggle his fingers in demonstration. “See?”

“Just because you can move them doesn’t mean they don’t hurt,” Shizuo informs him. “Aren’t you supposed to have the splint on for another week?”

Izaya rolls his eyes. “It’s fine,” he says. “Our friend the doctor said it would be alright to leave it off so long as I was careful with it. As long as I don’t get into any fistfights it’ll be okay like this.” He tips his head against the couch, flashes his teeth into a grin at Shizuo as he lifts his other foot to kick against the other’s shoulder. “And now I have you here to deal with any physical violence. So unless _you_ want to hit me, I’ll be completely safe.”

Shizuo snorts. “I’m not going to hit you,” he says, lifting his hand to push Izaya’s foot away with more casual distraction than irritation.

“Don’t you think I’m worth the trouble?” Izaya asks, kicking against Shizuo’s hip this time since the other’s outstretched arm is keeping him from getting contact at his shoulder.

“I didn’t said you don’t _deserve_ it,” Shizuo says, but he’s grinning, and when he gets ahold of Izaya’s ankles it’s only to pin them in place, holding both the other’s feet flush against his hip to remove the possibility of continued abuse. “I just don’t want to.”

“Oh?” Izaya raises an eyebrow, angles his head to the side against the unfamiliar soft of the couch. “Have you become a pacifist all of a sudden, Shizuo?”

“It’s not _all of a sudden_ ,” Shizuo tells him. “I don’t like violence, you know that.”

“It’s hard to remember,” Izaya drawls. “For something you say you hate so much, you sure spend a lot of time indulging in the pursuit.”

“Yeah, and I spend a lot of time with you too.” Shizuo reaches out for the shogi board to move a piece; his other hand stays braced against Izaya’s ankles. “I never claimed to make particularly good life decisions.”

Izaya laughs, feels the sound skid brittle against his tongue before he can call it back. “Are you saying you hate me too, Shizu-chan?”

“Keep calling me that and you’ll find out,” Shizuo growls at him, but his scowl lacks an edge, and when he smacks against Izaya’s feet it’s a glancing blow instead of a force to urge the contact away. “Of course I don’t hate you, idiot.”

“High praise,” Izaya tells him. “I don’t think anyone’s ever said they’ve not hated me before.”

“Don’t be a brat,” Shizuo says, fixing Izaya with a flat look that has more of an edge than a glare would. “We’ve been friends for years, obviously I enjoy your company. I _like_ you. Happy now?”

Izaya holds Shizuo’s gaze for a heartbeat, two, long enough for his own pulse to pick up the rhythm it’s thrumming in his throat and long enough for Shizuo’s mouth to ease out of the half-formed smile he’s offering from the other side of the couch. Izaya can feel his shoulders tensing, can feel adrenaline rippling hot under his skin; and then Shizuo takes a breath, and Izaya looks away to reach out for the shogi board with his left hand.

“Of course I am,” he says to the board. “It’s your turn, Shizuo.”

Izaya keeps his attention on the shogi board, after that. It seems safer than meeting Shizuo’s gaze, a steadier focal point than running the risk of the crackling tension between them that emerged before. But he keeps playing with his left hand, and Shizuo keeps playing with his right, and when Shizuo takes the win in the end Izaya thinks it’s more the fault of the touch pressing distraction against his ankles than the dull throb of ache from his half-healed finger.


	47. Smoke

“ _God_ ,” Shizuo groans as he takes the lead into Izaya’s apartment, barely pausing to kick his shoes off inside the door. “That was _awful_.”

“It was not,” Izaya says to his shoulders as he follows somewhat more sedately and lets the door swing shut behind him. “I know glaring must be physically taxing but surely you can handle a few hours of looking intimidating.”

“It wasn’t what _I_ was doing,” Shizuo tells him, pacing across the floor of the apartment as if he’s trying to work off a full day’s worth of nervous energy instead of that pent up over the few hours of negotiation from which they have just returned. “They all looked like they were ready to pull a knife on you at a moment’s notice.”

“They did,” Izaya agrees. He braces himself against the wall one-handed, toing his shoes off with more care than Shizuo showed to his own; when he moves forward it’s more slowly, too, so by the time he’s made it to the edge of the couch Shizuo’s walked the distance to the far bookshelf and had pivoted to start his journey back. “They might have if things had gone differently.”

“What the _hell_ ,” Shizuo growls. His hair is tangled over his forehead, the yellow locks rumpled by the wind on their walk back; his shoulders are hunched forward against the dark of his vest, his hands shoved into his pockets where Izaya is very sure he’s making fists of the unused tension humming along his spine. “What’s the point of having a bodyguard, then?”

“The point is that they _didn’t_.” Izaya shrugs his jacket off his shoulders and swings it around to drape over the arm of the couch before he steps around the corner and drops down to sprawl across the cushions himself. “And they weren’t going to, not with you there scowling at them the whole time. Thanks for that, by the way.”

Shizuo pauses in his irritated pacing, turns to face Izaya across the couch. “Was that a _success_ for you?”

Izaya rolls his eyes. “Of course it was.” He curls his right hand, a lingering habit from his run-in with Nakura that he hasn’t been able to shake; there’s no pain to accompany the motion, not even the faint twinge of slow-healing muscle that lingered for weeks after the splint came off. “If it wasn’t we’d be at Shinra’s getting you patched up instead of here.”

Shizuo huffs a laugh; it grates in the back of his throat, but his shoulders are easing a little bit, a little of the tension creasing his forehead is fading. “Just me?”

“Obviously.” Izaya braces an elbow against the couch and rests his chin against his hand as he looks sideways through his hair at Shizuo and offers the edge of a grin to the other. “There’s no way _I’d_ get hurt with my bodyguard there, right?”

“Brat,” Shizuo tells him, but he’s starting to smile anyway, his mouth is quirking on amusement as the strain undoes itself from his spine. “It doesn’t matter how many fights I get into as long as you’re fine, huh?”

“That’s the definition of your job,” Izaya tells him, but he’s smiling in truth, now, turning his head so he can face Shizuo’s expression head-on. There’s sunlight spilling through the windows behind the other, the illumination catching off his hair to gild it to gold at the edges; Izaya can feel the ache of too much brightness at the backs of his eyes and threatening protective tears that he blinks back instead of submitting to. “Are you hiding some mortal injury from me, Shizuo?”

Shizuo’s face creases into confusion. “No. What--”

“Then stop complaining.” Izaya lets his arm fall and rolls sideways and over onto his back against the couch so he can gaze up at the ceiling instead of at Shizuo. “Everything went just fine.”

“If you say so,” Shizuo says, sounding extraordinarily unconvinced, but Izaya can hear him huff a sigh, and when he glances sideways Shizuo’s shoulders are completely relaxed again and he’s looking in the direction of the kitchen in the corner. “Do you have anything to eat here?”

“I’m sure there’s something,” Izaya allows without moving from the couch. “Make yourself at home, Shizuo, what’s mine is yours.”

“Have you learned to feed yourself yet?” Shizuo asks as he moves away across the floor. “Or do you pay someone to go grocery shopping for you too?”

“There’s something,” Izaya insists, although in actual fact he’s not sure; he can’t remember the last substantial meal he cooked instead of buying, and his last trip to replenish the pantry and refrigerator was more vague wandering through the store aisles than a focused undertaking. “Check the cupboards.”

Izaya lies still across the couch, listening to the sound of Shizuo banging through the all-but untouched kitchen. There’s a surprising lack of complaining, or indeed of any speech at all; it’s not until Izaya hears the refrigerator shut with the weight of finality that Shizuo finally speaks, and then with the deceptively calm tone that always portends more frustration than the alternative.

“Three containers of cup ramen, a bottle of soy sauce, and a box of tea.” Izaya tips his head back against the couch to look up as Shizuo comes back from the kitchen, fixing the other with a glare as he pulls a box of cigarettes from his pocket. “That’s literally everything edible you have in your _entire_ apartment. I don’t even think you have a teapot. Are you _sure_ you’re capable of taking care of yourself?”

“I don’t like cooking,” Izaya says as Shizuo fits a cigarette to his lips and comes around the edge of the couch towards him. “I think there’s a box of pocky by the desk too.”

“That is not comforting,” Shizuo tells him. When he reaches out it’s to shove his hand against the top of Izaya’s head. “Sit up, there’s no space for me.”

“There’s an entire other side,” Izaya protests, but he’s lifting his head anyway, clearing the width of a cushion for Shizuo to drop himself over. He’s only up for a minute; then Shizuo is settling back against the couch and Izaya lets himself drop back to press the weight of his head against Shizuo’s leg. Shizuo doesn’t protest; he just continues fishing his lighter out of his pocket, bracing the cigarette at his lips as he flicks the flame alight and catches the paper to an ember as he inhales.

“Shouldn’t you ask me before you smoke in my apartment?” Izaya asks without moving to stop Shizuo.

Shizuo glances back at him, his eyes dark as his lips purse around his cigarette; when he turns away it’s to exhale before he returns the cigarette to his lips and leans back against the couch. “Do you want me to stop?” he asks, making the question into a growl instead of granting it sincerity.

Izaya shrugs. “No point,” he says. “You already smell like cigarettes anyway, I couldn’t get rid of the smoke without kicking you out too.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo tells him, reaching out to tangle his fingers into Izaya’s hair and shove against his head. “I do not.”

“You do,” Izaya says, submitting to Shizuo’s push without actually moving his head. “Pretty soon I’ll think of you every time a smoker passes me on the street.”

“Like I won’t already be there with you,” Shizuo says. The force of his hand eases, his fingers settling heavy into Izaya’s hair; the weight of his touch is warm against Izaya’s scalp. “You really should have more food around.”

“We’ll go out for sushi later,” Izaya tells him, watching Shizuo gaze out the window as the curl of smoke from his cigarette unfurls into the air.

“You can’t eat out for every meal,” Shizuo insists, although Izaya’s experience thus far indicates otherwise. Shizuo takes another inhale from his cigarette before breathing out a haze of smoke; when he shifts his hand his fingers slide a little farther into Izaya’s hair. “I’ll bring real food over for you next time.”

“You’ll take care of me?” Izaya lilts, swinging his voice into the most over-saturated sweet he can muster. “I’m so grateful, Shizu-chan, whatever would I do without my beloved senpai to look after me?”

“Shut _up_ ,” Shizuo growls past the flush starting to darken his cheeks, shoving hard against the other’s head while Izaya loses his adopted tone to an irrepressible giggle instead. “You’re the worst, you know that?”

“You flatter me,” Izaya purrs, grinning as Shizuo’s frown twists into a fought-back smile and his fingers catch and ruffle through the strands of the other’s hair. “Please, do go on.”

“Brat,” Shizuo says, but it’s framed around the smile catching at his mouth, and when his hand slides back through Izaya’s hair it’s too gentle to pass for anything but a caress. Izaya smiles, and shuts his eyes, and lets the smell of smoke fill his apartment as Shizuo’s fingers drag idle patterns through his hair.


	48. Delicious

“Aren’t you almost done?” Izaya calls without looking up from the glow of his phone screen. “It’s been an hour, I thought ramen was supposed to be _quick_.”

“It has not,” Shizuo protests from the kitchen, growling loudly enough that Izaya can hear him clearly even though the other has his back to him in favor of glaring attention at whatever he’s doing on the stove. “It’s barely been thirty minutes.”

Izaya glances up for a moment, just to watch the shift of Shizuo’s shoulders under his t-shirt as he stirs vigorous attention into the pot on the burner. “A whole thirty minutes?” he asks the flex of Shizuo’s shoulders and the tangle of his hair against his collar. “Cup ramen only takes a tenth that long, is this really worth it?”

“It’ll be a hundred times as good,” Shizuo informs him. “Shut up, it’s almost done anyway.”

Izaya grins, slow-spreading pleasure across his expression that Shizuo doesn’t turn around to see before he looks back down to tap the illusion of attention against his phone. “I hope so,” he says, lilting the word into a tremor in the back of his throat. “I’m afraid I’m going to fade away from hunger if I don’t eat soon.”

“I told you to stop complaining,” Shizuo says a moment before the _click_ of the stove turning off and the rattle of a burner indicate a conclusion to the experiment the other has been conducting in Izaya’s never-used kitchen. “It’s ready now anyway. Come and get it.”

“Oh no,” Izaya says to the screen of his phone. “It seems I am in such an advanced state of malnutrition that walking is out of the question for me. Whatever shall I do?”

“You are a _brat_ ,” Shizuo says with finality, and Izaya laughs without looking up to see what Shizuo is doing at the counter. He can see enough in his periphery through the shadow of his hair: Shizuo bending over to dig through the cupboards, the splash of liquid into a bowl and the careful motion of chopsticks as Shizuo handles the noodles. Finally there’s the sound of running water, white noise that cuts off abruptly as Shizuo shuts off the tap, and then “Put your phone away,” as the rhythm of footsteps heralds Shizuo’s imminent arrival.

“Just a minute,” Izaya says, still without looking up. “I’m in the middle of something.”

“I thought you were starving.” There’s the click of ceramic against wood, the weight of a bowl being set against the table, and then a hand closing at the top of Izaya’s phone and drawing it up and free of his fingers. Izaya blinks, his attention swinging up involuntarily to follow his suddenly-removed focal point, and Shizuo is there to meet him, giving him a look as much tolerant as it is irritated and offering a bowl hazy with steam over the gap between his position and Izaya’s angled knees.

“Here.” Shizuo casts the phone aside without bothering to lock it or see where it lands; Izaya would protest, except that the bowl in Shizuo’s other hand smells amazing and he wasn’t doing anything except scrolling up and down hours-old forum posts while he waited. “Eat.”

“You’re so pushy,” Izaya tells him, but he’s reaching out anyway to cup the bowl between both hands and take it safely from Shizuo’s one-handed hold against the edge. When he breathes in the steam he can taste chicken on his tongue, can smell the spicy bite of something too well-simmered to be clearly identified as anything other than delicious. His mouth waters. “Do you want me to just drink this, or…”

“No,” Shizuo says, not even sounding very upset at Izaya’s teasing drawl as he sits on the couch himself. He reaches out to the table to produce a pair of chopsticks from the far side of his own bowl and offers them to Izaya with a smirk that says he’s pleased with himself for offsetting this protest. “Anything else you want to complain about before you try it and admit it’s good?”

“I would never admit such a thing.” Izaya accepts the chopsticks and shifts his balance against the couch so he can settle the bowl against his lap with one hand for balance and manage the utensils in his free hand. “Don’t you know me well enough by now for that?”

Shizuo laughs. “Yeah,” he says, his voice purring on amusement instead of running rough against frustration. “Be careful, it’s hot.”

“I know,” Izaya says, maneuvering himself into a bite of ramen without looking up to meet the focused consideration Shizuo is giving him. The steam rises off the bowl to collect damp against his hand even as he blows against the noodles to cool them; it’s as warm against his skin as the bowl is against his lap. “I _am_ capable of eating without hurting myself, Shizuo.”

“You sure?” Shizuo wants to know, but Izaya’s taking a bite and he’s too distracted to come up with a sufficiently taunting answer. It _is_ hot, still, hot enough that for a moment he has to huff air to keep from burning himself, but the taste is good enough that he barely notices. The broth is spicy on his tongue, the noodles soft without being mushy; he can taste the vegetables that have been cooked down to unidentifiability and the suggestion of the chicken broiled to crispiness and left to soak into the noodles while they cook.

“It’s good,” Shizuo says without asking, and Izaya blinks himself back into focus as Shizuo leans forward to retrieve his own bowl from the table. “I knew it would be.”

“I never said that,” Izaya protests while Shizuo sets his bowl in his lap to take a bite for himself. “You’re just making things up.”

“It’s all over your face,” Shizuo says without looking up from his bowl. “It’s the best thing you’ve eaten all week, admit it.”

“It’s Tuesday,” Izaya tells him. “The competition hasn’t had enough time to produce a challenge.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo says, pausing to swallow a mouthful of noodles before collecting another bite in his chopsticks. “It’s delicious and you know it.”

“It’s just following instructions,” Izaya says before taking another bite, again too quickly to save himself from the almost-burn of the steam rising off the bowl. “Anyone can follow instructions.”

“That’s all cooking _is_.” Shizuo has a mouthful of noodles suspended out of the heat of the broth but he’s looking at Izaya, his eyes soft on tolerant amusement while his mouth tightens into the threat of laughter. “What do you think recipes are?”

“I have no idea.” Izaya kicks his foot out to rest his heel against Shizuo’s knee in a half-hearted attempt to knock the other’s bowl of ramen off-balance. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen one.”

“I should have known,” Shizuo sighs, and then hisses protest as Izaya shifts his weight and Shizuo’s bowl starts to tip. He catches it well before it goes over, lifting it free of the now-precarious balance of his lap, and Izaya grins and kicks his second foot out to take the space thus left unoccupied.

“Cooking is a pain anyway,” Izaya declares, crossing his feet at the ankles and grinning at Shizuo through the steam from his bowl. “It’s much easier to have someone else with too much time on his hands cook delicious things for me instead.”

Shizuo takes another bite before he answers; it gives Izaya enough time to look away and work through the noodles in his bowl in pursuit of a bite of chicken from the broth. He’s still looking down when Shizuo says, “It _is_ good, then?”

“Of course it’s good, Shizuo,” Izaya says, still looking down as he takes a bite of chicken so juicy and soft it all but falls apart on his tongue. “Didn’t you say you knew that?”

Shizuo huffs a laugh. “Yeah,” he says, and Izaya can hear the smile on his voice even before he glances up through the shadow of his hair to see the curve at Shizuo’s lips as he looks back down at his bowl.

Izaya’s glad for the excuse of the steam to explain the heat across his cheeks.


	49. Secondhand

“I can’t believe you’re still reading manga,” Izaya calls across the width of his apartment without looking up from the glow of the computer screen. “Isn’t that the same series you used to read in middle school?”

“Shut up,” Shizuo replies. Izaya glances up for a moment but Shizuo’s not looking at him; he’s still where he’s been for the past two hours, sprawled out across the long side of Izaya’s couch with a volume of manga propped open on the cushion in front of him. “What I do in my free time doesn’t affect you, stop complaining.”

“It matters when you’re taking over my apartment to do it,” Izaya says. He can see the chat room flickering in his periphery as new messages flash into existence, but when he looks back he barely skims them before his attention is dragging back to the fit of Shizuo’s vest across his shoulders and the way the cuffs of his shirt are catching on the shift of his wrists. “Aren’t you old enough to have a place of your own by now?”

“Yeah,” Shizuo says, and he does look up, then, tipping his head to the side to glare at Izaya from across the distance of the apartment. “I would, too, if my employer actually paid me instead of just talking about it.”

“That’s harsh, Shizu-chan,” Izaya lilts, grinning as Shizuo rolls his eyes and looks back to his manga. “When I’m practically giving you a place to live in exchange for the pleasure of your company for a few hours a day, why would you need an apartment of your own?”

“I dunno,” Shizuo says to the pages in front of him. “It’s just that my best friend won’t leave me alone about it.”

“Aww,” Izaya says, and lifts his foot to brace against the far side of the desk so he can push himself back towards the window. His chair tips into a lean; if he braces his toes against the desk he can rock himself slightly from side to side. “Sounds like a jerk.”

“I know.” Shizuo looks back towards Izaya again, shaking his head to knock his hair free of his face; he’s smirking, the corner of his mouth tugging into sharp-edged amusement. “He’s always been like this.”

“You should get yourself better friends,” Izaya suggests, then, fast and rushed, like an apology: “Oh, I’m sorry. I guess holding onto even one friend is doing well for a monster like you.”

“Are you back to that?” Shizuo wants to know, and Izaya has to laugh, kicking himself off the back of the desk and into half-a-spin before he pushes himself out of his chair to come around the edge of the desk. Shizuo looks away again as Izaya gets to his feet, turning back to the manga on the couch in front of him, but his shoulders are still tense on attention and Izaya is very sure he’s not actually reading anything on the page in front of him.

“Of course I am,” Izaya says, drawling the words singsongy while he crosses the distance of the apartment towards Shizuo on the couch. Shizuo doesn’t look up as he approaches, instead keeping his eyes on his manga with stubborn focus, which means he doesn’t see Izaya coming alongside him or reaching for the shadow of his pocket and the box just visible inside it. Izaya closes his grip around the top of the box and is drawing it free before Shizuo even realizes he’s there; the other turns as soon as he does, reaching out to grab at Izaya’s wrist while he’s still growling incoherent protest, but Izaya skips backwards around the edge of the table, grinning at Shizuo as he maneuvers himself backwards to the other side of the couch. “You don’t get to become human just because you’ve been behaving yourself for a few months, you know.”

“Give those back,” Shizuo demands, holding up his open palm as if Izaya is actually going to obey the order.

“Hm.” Izaya flips the top of the box open and draws a cigarette free before he tosses the box towards Shizuo’s face, earning himself a grimace and an upraised hand to catch the projectile while Izaya fits the cigarette to his lips and reaches into his pocket for a lighter. “You’ll need to find yourself a princess willing to kiss you in order to turn you into a real human prince, Shizu-chan.”

“Stop calling me that,” Shizuo tells him, a little more calmly. “And don’t smoke my cigarettes.”

“You’re so pushy today.” Izaya catches the cigarette between his fingers, bracing the angle of it between his lips as he flicks the lighter open, his motion a deliberate imitation of the casual familiarity he’s seen at Shizuo’s fingertips dozens of times. “What happened to your usual kindness and generosity?”

“ _You_ started picking a fight,” Shizuo says, but he sounds abstracted, like he’s looking at something else. Izaya glances back, expecting Shizuo’s attention to be back on the manga open in front of him, but it’s not; Shizuo’s still staring at him, his forehead creased and mouth gone soft on inattention as he watches the flicker of the lighter in Izaya’s fingers. Izaya can feel a shiver run all the way down his spine, like the chill of the winter air outside has managed to creep past the barrier of the windows along the far wall; he takes an inhale off the cigarette without watching the end of the paper catch into flame, without looking away from the focus Shizuo is giving to the shift of the lighter. Izaya can feel the burn of the smoke in his lungs, the bitter of the cigarette filling his mouth and tickling against the back of his throat, but he resists the urge to cough; he draws the cigarette away instead, braces his thumb against the back of the lighter, and exhales a lungful of smoke into Shizuo’s face at the same time he flicks the lid shut over the flame. Shizuo blinks at the click of the metal, and flinches at the smoke, and Izaya slides the lighter back into his pocket while Shizuo is still waving the haze away from his face.

“Hm.” Izaya takes another inhale, holding the smoke in his lungs for a long moment before blowing it out. He doesn’t look at Shizuo glaring up at him from the couch. “These are _terrible_.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo growls, reaching for the cigarette before Izaya draws it free of his lips and holds it overhead and out of Shizuo’s range. “You don’t even smoke, how would you know?”

“Instinct,” Izaya says. “I can always count on you to have terrible taste in everything.”

“Including friends, apparently,” Shizuo snaps back, pushing the manga away so he can come up onto his knees and match the reach of Izaya’s extended arm. Izaya grins and leans back against the couch, angling his hand back and out of range, and Shizuo grumbles something low and wordless and grabs at Izaya’s shoulder to hold him still as he leans in closer. For a moment Shizuo’s pressed hard against Izaya’s chest, the weight of his body pinning the other back against the couch; and then there’s a hand at Izaya’s wrist, fingers catching at the cigarette, and Shizuo is purring victory and straightening to collapse back against the couch as he brings the cigarette to his own mouth.

“Brat,” he tells Izaya, his lips catching and pressing against the print of Izaya’s left on the paper a moment before. Izaya’s gaze catches at the tips of Shizuo’s fingers, lingers at the purse of his mouth, and for a moment it feels like his heart can’t find its rhythm, like it’s trying to hum instead of beat inside his chest. “Don’t take my stuff just to complain about it.” Shizuo takes an inhale, a deep one Izaya can hear even over the distance of the couch between them; and then he lets it go, and exhales a cloud of smoke into the air, and Izaya blinks and breathes and feels his heart catch itself back into its usual flutter against his ribs.

“Right,” he says, drawling the word into his best teasing range. “I’ll see what I can do in the future” as he tips sideways to lie across the short side of the couch so he can swing his feet up onto the far arm. The manga’s still open; Izaya considers the pages for a moment before flipping it shut and shoving it off the edge of the couch to the floor.

“Hey,” Shizuo says, but the irritation on his voice is more put-on than anything else, and he’s leaning forward to pick up the volume even as he complains. It’s while he’s reaching for it that Izaya reaches sideways for the box in Shizuo’s pocket again, and even when Shizuo hisses protest and reaches to grab at his wrist and stall his motion all he does is laugh.

The pressure of Shizuo’s fingers against his skin is better than the nicotine would be anyway.


	50. Melt

It starts snowing on Christmas morning.

Izaya’s on the computer when it starts; it’s the flash of messages in the chatroom chirping excitement about the weather that gets him to turn around to actually notice the soft white flakes drifting from the clouds overhead to scatter on the city below. For several minutes his attention is held just by the perspective his position grants him; with the windows soaring above him he can look up to see the flakes drifting down towards him or step closer to the glass and look down instead to see the feathery weight of the ice swaying through the air en route to melting against the sidewalk or catching and chilling against someone’s shoulder. Izaya just stares for some time, attempting the impossible task of watching individual snowflakes as they traverse the sky to the streets below, and by the time he’s turned back to the computer screen the rest of the chat room attendees have logged off to make the most of the unexpected weather. Izaya is left to type to an empty room, to offer taunting wishes to _stay warm <3_ to a group no longer listening, and then he goes to turn up the thermostat until the glass of the windows is so warm snowflakes melt on contact with it.

Shizuo shows up a half-hour later, flushed with the cold and with his hair glinting with flecks of ice that have dissolved to damp by the time Izaya gets the door shut behind him. He complains about the heat exactly as long as it takes him to shed his jacket and shoes, and then promptly spreads himself out over the entire couch to smoke a cigarette and watch the snow drift past the window with every appearance of complete absorption. Izaya is left to make a pot of tea, and flick through the silent forums on his phone, and to offer teasing commentary to Shizuo that only gets a drowsy grunt of response every few minutes.

“It’s a beautiful day for all the lovebirds in the city,” he says now, as Shizuo sits up so he can retrieve an envelope from his pocket to catch the end of his burnt-out cigarette. “It’s so romantic, you know, freezing to death while wading through inches of slush.”

“Don’t be cynical,” Shizuo tells him, replacing the envelope in his pocket as he leans back against the couch. Izaya turns sideways against the cushions and kicks his feet out into Shizuo’s lap; Shizuo doesn’t protest, doesn’t even move except to let one hand fall heavy across Izaya’s ankles. “It’s pretty out there.”

“It’s _cold_ ,” Izaya tells him, glancing at Shizuo still staring out at the window before bracing his elbow against the arm of the couch and resting his chin at his hand. “Or do things like the temperature not bother a monster like you?”

Shizuo groans and tips his head back against the couch. “If you weren’t so skinny you wouldn’t get cold so easily.”

Izaya waves his hand without looking. “I’m not the oddity here, Shizu-chan,” he says, lilting the words into a sing-songy rhythm like he’s tasting sugar in the pauses between the words. “You’re clearly an aberration to not mind freezing temperatures.” He can feel the weight of Shizuo’s arm against his legs, can feel the heat of the contact radiating all the way up into his body until his skin is prickling with heat instead of with cold. “I’d much rather appreciate the snow from here, where I don’t have to suffer its sideeffects.”

Shizuo huffs a laugh. “Yeah,” he says, shifting his hand so he can catch the seam of Izaya’s jeans and toy idly with the fabric. “That sounds just like you.”

Izaya looks away from the snow outside and over at Shizuo instead. Shizuo’s not watching him; he’s looking at the motion of his fingers on Izaya’s jeans, the suggestion of a smile playing at his lips as he does. He looks even warmer than he feels, like the glow of the heating is only there to color his cheeks as pink as his mouth, like any vestige of irritability has melted away along with the snow in his hair. Izaya can feel his heart skip in his chest, can feel the unpleasant ache of painful want against his ribcage, and it would be easy to reach out and touch Shizuo’s shoulder, or to lean in and fit himself under Shizuo’s arm, but he doesn’t do either. He draws his foot away instead, interrupting the unthinking movement of Shizuo’s fingers against the denim to kick ungently against the other’s hip.

“Too bad you don’t have anything better to do than spend the day with me,” Izaya drawls, letting the ache in his chest turn into the raw edge of a grin as Shizuo hisses at the impact and looks up to frown at him. “Only think how many girls you could impress with your inhuman tolerance for cold.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo tells him, pushing Izaya’s foot away from the impact the other has just made with his hip. His forehead is creased, his mouth tense on its frown, but he doesn’t look angry, exactly; there’s something else behind his eyes, a shadow there Izaya’s never seen before. “I don’t see you out with anyone either.”

“Of course not,” Izaya says, baring his teeth in a flash of a smile before he looks away to let his attention slide out to the window again while he slouches against the arm of the couch. Shizuo’s still holding onto his ankle with enough force that Izaya couldn’t break free if he tried, and he doesn’t make the attempt; he just stretches his other foot out farther to angle his whole leg across the support of Shizuo’s lap. “It’s a public service, Shizuo, me keeping you occupied so everyone else can have a romantic day out.” He angles his arm against the support of the couch and tips his head to rest against his forearm instead of his hand. “Only think how distracting a brawl would be to a new couple in the first flush of love.”

“I haven’t gotten into a fight since I saved you from Izumii,” Shizuo points out. “You act like I’d cause a riot just by walking down the street.”

“Wouldn’t you?” Izaya wants to know. “What, does the monster want to make an attempt at humanity?” He glances sideways to see Shizuo staring at him before he looks away again and back out to the window. “How romantic. Who’s the lucky victim of your affections? Someone you saw for a moment at the bar and haven’t been able to stop thinking of?” Izaya’s heart is pounding, adrenaline soaring reckless in his veins; he blinks hard and keeps his eyes fixed on the window even as Shizuo’s fingers tighten against his ankle. “Is it a tragic romance, Shizu-chan? Maybe a married woman, or someone too young for you?”

“Shut up,” Shizuo says, his voice low in the back of his throat. “Stop being a brat.”

“She must be beautiful,” Izaya says to the window, not even kicking to free his foot from the bruising weight of Shizuo’s hold. “Or maybe just too nice for her own good. Is a smile really all it takes to calm the savage beast?”

“Let it go,” Shizuo says. “Just drop it, Izaya.”

“I bet I can guess who.” Izaya squints at the window, makes a pout of pretended concentration. “It’s that new waitress at Russia Sushi, isn’t it? She’s quiet, not _my_ type, but she certainly seemed to like you when we went by there last. I’m not sure she _can_ talk at all, actually. Do you think she speaks anything but Russian?”

“ _Izaya_.” Izaya can feel the sound of his name resonate all the way down his spine, like the rumble of Shizuo’s voice is spilling straight from his lips and into Izaya’s body. “ _Stop_.”

“Hit a nerve, I see,” Izaya says. His smile is still at his mouth, the manic edge of it still locked in place, but he can feel his heart beating frantic in his chest, can feel his breathing catching faster on the rough edges of anxiety forming along his spine. “I’m happy for you, Shizuo, really I am, you should have told me sooner that you were in love.”

“This is ridiculous,” Shizuo says, perfectly calm and perfectly flat, and then he’s shoving at Izaya’s ankles, pushing them sideways so harshly Izaya slides over the couch and nearly topples over the edge himself before he can throw a hand out to catch himself on the coffee table. He pushes himself upright, turns to glare back at Shizuo on the other end of the couch -- except Shizuo’s not _on_ the other end of the couch, not anymore. He has a knee up against the cushions, is leaning forward and up over Izaya, and Izaya leans back in immediate, reflexive retreat from the shadow of Shizuo’s shoulders and the completely unreadable expression on his face. Anger would make him smile, a grin would make him laugh, but Shizuo’s eyes are too soft for anger, and his mouth is too set for amusement, and in the first uncertain hesitation in Izaya’s reaction he’s talking, fast and hard like he’s biting off each word at the back of his tongue.

“This is _stupid_ ,” he says, and Izaya is staring at him, his mouth open on unformed words and his heart trying to beat double-time in his chest like it can outpace his startled-still thoughts to catch up to what’s going on. “I keep waiting and waiting for you to make up your mind and I’m _tired_ of it.” Shizuo’s hand is braced against the back of the couch, tensing against the support; Izaya can hear the frame of the furniture creak under the pressure of Shizuo’s fingers. “You don’t make any _sense_ , half the time you’re practically in my lap and act like we got married when I wasn’t looking and the other half of the time you’re making up these absurd fantasies about some nonexistent girlfriend. Don’t you know _why_ I’m not seeing anyone?” Izaya can’t speak, can’t blink, but Shizuo isn’t waiting for an answer; he’s still talking fast, the words spilling from his mouth like blows that hurt more than any of the accidental bruises he’s ever left. “It’s not that no one’s interested. I’m pretty sure that waitress _would_ say yes to a date if I asked.” Izaya sucks in a sharp breath, feeling like a knife’s been forced between his ribs, and Shizuo flinches, the soft in his eyes spilling over his whole expression for a moment.

“Don’t look like that,” he says, and his hand is against Izaya’s face, his fingers pressing clumsy comfort against Izaya’s skin, and Izaya chokes on his inhale and can’t remember how to start breathing again. “You always look like I’m tearing your heart out with my bare hands when I mention anyone else and I thought it--” He cuts himself off, his mouth reforming into an uncertain frown. His hand is still against Izaya’s face. Izaya still can’t breathe.

“I’ve been waiting on you for years,” Shizuo says. “I don’t go on dates. I spend every Christmas with _you_.” His mouth catches into a startling smile, his voice breaks on a laugh; Izaya can feel the warmth of it against his mouth. “I spend _all_ my time with you. I _like_ you.” Izaya’s heart stutters, skidding against the edge of a precipice, and then Shizuo’s gaze drops down to his mouth, and lingers there, and when Shizuo swallows hard Izaya can feel all his gravity upend itself and throw him into freefall.

“I like you a _lot_.” Shizuo’s hand is still against Izaya’s cheek; when he shifts his fingertips catch on dark hair and jolt electricity out into the spreading numb that has locked Izaya into a stasis from which he can’t break himself free. Shizuo’s eyelashes flutter, black over brown, and then his mouth eases, his lips falling barely open as he leans in over the inches of distance between them. Izaya’s heart is frantic in his chest but the rest of him is frozen, locked still like Shizuo’s stolen all his time from him, like he’s caught in the gap between those first few seconds and hasn’t been able to step back into reality again. Shizuo’s hair falls forward to catch Izaya’s, Izaya can feel the rush of air as the other inhales; and he can feel the hesitation, the tension in the hand against his cheek and the uncertainty in the angle of Shizuo’s shoulders.

Shizuo swallows. He’s so close Izaya can almost feel the vibration of the motion against his mouth. “Izaya,” soft, almost a whisper. Izaya’s never heard Shizuo’s voice sound so gentle before. “Can I--”

Izaya’s hand moves on its own. He can’t remember how to use the slack weight of his arms and legs any more than he can remember how to inhale air into his aching lungs, but there’s no conscious thought to this: his fingers catching against dark fabric, his hand closing into a fist so tight it aches across his knuckles and strains desperate in his wrist.

“Do it,” he says, harsh as a command, and then he’s pulling, and Shizuo’s moving, and then Shizuo’s lips are on his.

It’s an awkward angle. Shizuo’s leaning too far forward, and Izaya’s pulling him in strangely, and they’re not quite in position, so Shizuo’s mouth is pressed against a corner of Izaya’s lips more than lined up properly. His mouth is softer than Izaya expected, his lips faintly chapped from the walk through the cold earlier; and then Shizuo’s drawing back, and Izaya takes a breath, and everything in his entire body flares into heat all at the same time.

“There,” Shizuo says, his voice still in that strange pseudo-whisper like he’s afraid of being overheard. “That’s. That was.”

“You’re a terrible kisser,” Izaya manages, the words unfolding themselves from some instinct in him that’s taking over his throat and making use of his tongue while he tries to exist around the shuddering electricity that is turning him into one single mote of heat and light and flame. “Is that really the best you can do, Shizu-chan?”

“I haven’t ever kissed anyone before,” Shizuo tells him, his voice very nearly level except for the end, where it cracks and skids high and suddenly desperate on his tongue. “How am I _supposed_ to do it?”

“I don’t know,” Izaya says, and that was more honesty than he intended, as if his intent still has any bearing at all on the words spilling helplessly from his mouth or on the dig of his fingernails in the front of Shizuo’s vest. “Who am _I_ meant to have practiced with, exactly?”

“Fuck,” Shizuo growls, “No one” and then his hand is sliding farther into Izaya’s hair and he’s kissing him again, harder this time, with the soft of his mouth and the weight of his hand at Izaya’s head offering counterpoint friction. Izaya can feel himself starting to shake, can feel all the structure of his awareness crumbling to pieces around him, and then Shizuo licks against his lips and Izaya’s shutting his eyes and opening his mouth and he’s lost, there’s nothing for him but the weight of Shizuo’s fingers in his hair and the heat of Shizuo’s mouth on his. Shizuo shifts, pushing in closer as his other hand drops to catch at Izaya’s waist, but Izaya’s grabbing at the back of his neck, he can feel the heat of bare skin and the soft of Shizuo’s hair and the crisp edge of white collar caught under the trembling grasp of his fingers. Shizuo makes some sound against Izaya’s mouth, low and hot and purring, and Izaya can feel it vibrate all the way down his throat and into his lungs, filling him up like he’s inhaled steam to burn him to ash from the inside out. Shizuo’s mouth is on his and Izaya’s tasting the smoke off his tongue, is catching the soft of Shizuo’s lip between his teeth -- and Shizuo’s pulling back, retreating with absolutely no hesitation in breaking the full-strength hold Izaya has on him.

“Shit,” he says, his voice resonant with panic, and Izaya opens his eyes and blinks his vision clear to see Shizuo staring at him, his cheeks flushed and eyes dark and lips parted on...horror, maybe, or concern, on the rising edge of fright behind the unfocused soft of his eyes. “Fuck, I’m sorry, what did I do?”

“What?” Izaya’s throat says for him while the entire rest of his body attempts to drag Shizuo back by physical force.

“Did I hurt you?” Shizuo asks, and his forehead is creasing, now, his mouth is drawing into a frown as he stares at Izaya. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to--did you not want…?”

“What the _fuck_ are you talking about?” Izaya snaps, or at least he intends it to snap; the words stall against tension at the back of his throat, trip over themselves into a weird shuddering weight, and he realizes what the tension pressing against his chest is just as Shizuo says “You’re crying,” and reaches to touch his thumb to the damp Izaya didn’t even feel.

Izaya blinks, takes a breath, unwinds his hold from Shizuo’s vest so he can lift his fingers to touch his cheek. They come away wet, damp with the salt of the tears that are still falling every time he blinks; his chest is aching, his breathing catching into the hiccuping pattern of sobs that he doesn’t intend and can’t explain. He blinks harder but that doesn’t help; the tears are coming faster than he can dry them, tangling against his tongue until he’s gasping for air, until he feels like the oxygen in the room is vanishing to leave his chest straining for relief as if he’s drowning.

“ _Shit_ ,” Shizuo says, and he’s pulling his hand away, he’s straightening in spite of Izaya’s lingering hold at the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You _didn’t_ ,” Izaya says, lifting his arm to rub viciously against the pointless damp at his eyes. “It’s fine, I’m _fine_.”

“You’re _crying_ , you’re not _fine_ ,” Shizuo says, but he sounds more uncertain than insistent, and when Izaya draws his sleeve away Shizuo hasn’t retreated any farther across the couch than to sit up. Izaya pushes himself upright to follow, reaches out to grab hard at Shizuo’s vest again, and Shizuo could push him away or pull free but he doesn’t; he just stays still, looking at Izaya with his lips drawn into a frown to match the crease laid across his forehead.

“I’m okay,” Izaya repeats. He can still feel his throat trying to close up, can still feel his heart fluttering on too-much adrenaline in his blood; but he’s warm through his whole body, his fingers are tightening and dragging at Shizuo’s vest, and Shizuo’s not coming closer but Izaya’s pulling himself forward instead, and when he rocks up onto his knees and reaches for the back of Shizuo’s neck Shizuo lets him, breathing out in a rush as Izaya’s fingers touch his skin. His eyelashes flutter, his hand comes out involuntarily, and his touch at Izaya’s waist is delicate but the contact is like fire lacing itself into Izaya’s veins.

“I’m fine,” Izaya says, and then, in a surge of honesty he doesn’t plan and can’t stop: “I’m _happy_ ,” the word tearing in the back of his throat until it sounds more like a curse than sincerity. Shizuo looks up at him, his eyes wide and dark and unreadable; and then he laughs, a sudden splash of sound to match the rush of Izaya’s breathing, and his hand presses harder at Izaya’s waist, his fingers settling into place around the rhythm of the other’s breathing.

“Okay,” he says, and his gaze flickers down to Izaya’s mouth, his throat works on a visible swallow. Izaya can feel his pulse skidding in his veins, can taste smoke at the back of his tongue, and then he pulls at Shizuo’s vest, and Shizuo leans forward, and Izaya catches Shizuo’s parted lips with his own.

The tears stop after a few minutes. The kissing does not.


	51. Practice

They get better with practice.

Izaya only notes it distantly, in tiny bursts of clarity between the breathless heat that is flushing his whole body warmer than he’s ever been before, warm enough to counterbalance the chill from the snow outside and enough to make the heat of the turned-up thermostat oppressive. Most of his attention is given to instinct, to curling his fingers in under the loop of Shizuo’s bowtie and dragging until Shizuo falls forward against him and the other’s weight bears them down to the soft of the couch. Whatever smoke-haze of cigarettes clung to Shizuo’s lips is gone, the bitter taste of them worked off under the jealous drag of Izaya’s teeth and tongue. Shizuo just tastes warm, now, sweet like strawberries when Izaya licks past the damp part of his lips, and that’s to say nothing of the way he’s pressing Izaya down to the couch, with their legs a tangle over the cushions and their bodies so close together that Izaya can feel the buttons of Shizuo’s vest bruising against the midline of his ribcage. There are hands in his hair, Shizuo’s fingers working through the strands every time they break apart to gasp for a few inhales of breath, and there’s weight at Izaya’s neck, too, the gentle press of Shizuo’s palm holding him still enough to spark electricity all down his spine and back up to short-circuit any coherency he might have found. There’s nothing left for technique, not consciously, so it’s reflex that drives Izaya instead, the aching need to crush his mouth to Shizuo’s between every unfortunately necessary gap to breathe and the low groaning note he can win from Shizuo’s throat when he catches his teeth bruise-hard against the other’s lip.

“Fuck,” Shizuo says against the pressure, the word growling into heat on the back of his tongue as Izaya fits his fingers to a fist on yellow hair and digs the sharp edges of his teeth in against Shizuo’s mouth until he can taste the prelude to blood on his tongue. Shizuo’s lashes are dark when Izaya gets his vision to focus enough to see the other’s half-shut eyes; his lips are bruised-red, showing the marks of Izaya’s mouth in vivid color as he huffs into a laugh. “You’re trying to eat me alive.”

“My apologies,” Izaya says, aiming for a taunting lilt that catches on unexpected roughness in his throat to spill past his lips as an undeniably seductive purr. Shizuo groans and leans in for Izaya’s neck as Izaya turns his head to give him better access. “I thought you’d be able to handle a little roughness.” Izaya lets his fingers uncurl, arches his hand into a deliberately delicate arc as he draws his touch down through Shizuo’s hair; his nails catch at the back of the other’s neck, dragging glancing friction against his skin, and Shizuo shudders through his whole body, his mouth coming open against Izaya’s neck like he’s trying to print the sound in his throat to the other’s skin instead of a kiss. “Is that better?”

“Fuck,” Shizuo says again, turning his head to catch his mouth at Izaya’s wrist, at the curve of his palm, at the angle of his fingers, his lips trailing a pattern of damp heat against the other’s skin that Izaya can feel shudder all the way down his spine like a single electrical current. Shizuo’s hand trails over Izaya’s shirt and across his ribcage; Izaya arches helplessly into the contact, his whole body curving up and off the couch to meet Shizuo’s touch as if it’s a magnet. Shizuo’s fingers weight at his hip, Shizuo’s touch closes against his skin, and Izaya’s gasping air while Shizuo sighs heat against his fingers and finally turns his head to blink the distraction of shadows back down at the other. “It’s fine, whatever is fine.” He pushes closer, hard enough to shove Izaya back against the side of the couch as he ducks in to fit his lips against the pattern of the other’s pulse; when he breathes in Izaya can feel it against his hair, can feel Shizuo’s nose pressing just behind his ear. “ _God_ , you smell good.”

“What?” Izaya says, his kiss-marked fingers wandering back into Shizuo’s hair to spread wide against the back of his head. It’s hard to find the shape of teasing in the back of his throat -- it’s hard to find anything in him at all except for the thrumming heat taking the place of all his consciousness -- but he makes the attempt, struggling for a laugh that sounds almost sincere by the time he manages to cough it free. “I _smell_ good?”

“Yeah.” Shizuo’s fingers curl into Izaya’s hair, the support of his hand holding the other still against the push of his face against Izaya’s neck; Izaya can feel his heartbeat pounding against Shizuo’s lips, can feel his whole body trembling like it’s only the weight of Shizuo pressed against him that is holding him in one piece. “You always have.” Shizuo breathes in hard, like he’s trying to inhale Izaya directly into his lungs, like Izaya’s the smoke from one of his cigarettes, and Izaya has to shut his eyes to the rush of heat that hits him at the thought. Shizuo sighs against his shoulder, nuzzles against his hair, and Izaya’s fingers tighten at the back of the other’s neck as if he can hold himself to reality just by the friction of the physical contact. “I’ve wanted to do this for years.”

“You really have to work on your pillow talk,” Izaya manages to get out, almost smoothly except for the tremor that catches his voice on the second-to-last word. “The pining part is good but you might want to go with kissing or touching as your fantasy instead of _smelling_. It shows a little too much of your animal side, Shizu-chan, you’d frighten off most lovers.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo says without moving away. Izaya can feel the vibration of almost-laughter in the words falling against his skin. “ _You’re_ not frightened.”

“Of course not,” Izaya says. Shizuo’s hair is soft under his fingers; as he talks Shizuo angles his head in closer, pressing his mouth into the idle weight of a kiss while Izaya tries to remember how to communicate with anything other than body language. “I’ve--I’ve known you too long to be alarmed by something so trivial.”

“Then it doesn’t matter,” Shizuo says with finality. His fingers tighten at Izaya’s hip, his thumb weighting denim to skin; when he turns his head down his mouth catches the edge of the other’s shirt, his lips pressing a half-formed kiss against Izaya’s collarbone. “If you don’t care then it doesn’t matter.”

“I’m just trying to be helpful,” Izaya attempts, though it’s hard to keep a grip on the conversation with Shizuo marking a line of heat against the neckline of his shirt. His heart keeps trying to skip into a faster rhythm of adrenaline, as if it’s not already going doubletime in answer to the friction of Shizuo’s touch; when Shizuo’s mouth lands in the dip between Izaya’s collarbones Izaya’s breathing catches into the outline of a whimper before he can close his mouth on the sound. “In case you want to be more generally appealing to humanity as a whole.”

“I don’t,” Shizuo growls. There’s heat against Izaya’s skin, the press of Shizuo’s lips to his throat hotter even than the shuddering fire in his veins; he arches into the contact without thinking, his body trying to press closer against the weight of Shizuo on top of him. “Stop acting like I’m going to abandon you for someone better as soon as I get bored.”

“Oh?” Izaya says, purring the word into a taunt that feels almost sincere, that nearly absents itself from the tremor of panic at the back of his tongue at having Shizuo put words to the trembling anxiety lying under all the adrenaline in his veins. “Come on, Shizuo, don’t you think you could find someone else if you looked?”

“Sure I could,” Shizuo says, and then he’s lifting his head and coming back up and all Izaya can see is the dark of his eyes, the focused attention behind the slurring shadows of heat that are layering Shizuo’s eyelashes into something heavy and softer even than usual. “I’m not looking.” He leans closer, close enough that his nose bumps Izaya’s cheek; when he breathes in again it’s with that same desperate edge to it, like he’s a drowning man breaking the surface of the sea.

“You’re a brat,” Shizuo says, and Izaya can feel the resonance of the words against his mouth, is tipping his head up to meet the familiar shape of them without thinking at all. Shizuo’s lashes flutter, his hand slides at Izaya’s hip; Izaya’s shirt catches, drags up by an inch, and when Shizuo’s skin fits against his he shudders like the contact is electrified. Shizuo’s mouth comes against his, catches and stills the motion for a moment, and when he pulls back again his voice has dropped lower, has hit a depth that Izaya can feel resonate through his bones until he’s feeling it more than hearing the sound. “You’re a brat, and you’re more trouble than you’re worth, and I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you.”

Izaya’s laugh sticks in his throat and turns inside-out into the leading edge of hysteria. His eyes are hot again, the threat of tears reasserting itself if not quite forming to wet. “I guess that was a little better,” he allows, tugging idly at the hold he has on Shizuo’s off-center tie. “Maybe lead off with the compliment and not the insults next time.”

Shizuo’s smile is bright, flashing warm counterpoint to the shadowed dark of his eyes. “Shut up, Izaya,” he says, and then he leans in to push the expectation of a reply off Izaya’s lips with the weight of his own.

Izaya tightens his hold, and shuts his eyes, and surrenders the chill of the panic in his chest to the heat of Shizuo’s mouth on his.


	52. Serious

“I told you it was too cold to go out,” Izaya complains as they step through the front door of Russia Sushi and into the warmth of the interior. Even with the hood of his jacket up over his head Izaya’s shivering; when he moves he can feel the thin crust of snow collected across his shoulders crack and melt in surrender to the heat. “We should have stayed back in the apartment, at least then we would be _warm_.”

“We can’t make out all day,” Shizuo tells him, only blushing a very little bit when Izaya looks up through his lashes at him. His mouth is still a little redder than usual, his lips bruised into a softness they don’t usually have, but Izaya is fairly confident no one other than him would notice the difference. He’s biting his own lip without thinking, sucking against the ache laid under his skin as he looks at Shizuo’s mouth; then Shizuo glances at him, and Izaya looks away in a rush, lifting a hand to push his hood back off his head so he can hide behind the cover of his arm for a moment.

“I don’t see why not,” he mutters, softly enough that even Shizuo right next to him will barely hear him.

“I’m _hungry_ ,” Shizuo says, still looking at Izaya sideways through his hair. He didn’t pull his hood up when they left Izaya’s apartment; there’s the damp of snow melting into the yellow, flecks of ice catching to sparkle in the light before they dissolve to damp. “You miss enough meals as it is, you’re not going to skip this one.”

“Shame,” Izaya sighs, looking away from Shizuo and out to where Simon is working his way through the unusually dense crowd in the restaurant. “If we had stayed at home you could be putting something else in my mouth.” Shizuo chokes on his inhale, sucking in air and trying to gasp protest at the same time, and Izaya grins without looking at him as Simon comes forward and into earshot.

“Welcome, welcome, merry Christmas!” Simon tells them, beaming at the pair of them before fixing Shizuo and his gasping cough with a look of more concern. “The snow is very beautiful but very bad for health, yes? Hats are best for cold weather, getting sick would be very bad!”

“I’m fine,” Shizuo manages, although he’s still red all over his face; Izaya takes a step sideways just in advance of Shizuo swinging an arm out to smack at him, making the impact glancing instead of full-force. “Are you busy tonight?”

“Busy, yes, Christmas is a good night for sushi!” Simon gestures expansively at the full front room, turning to smile benevolently at the dozens of customers. “Always space for two more. Come, I bring Christmas special for you, very good, very cheap.”

“Sure,” Shizuo says, still flushed red and still not looking to meet Izaya’s gaze. “Sounds good.” Simon takes the lead through the restaurant and Shizuo follows him without waiting; Izaya’s left to trail in their wake, still grinning at Shizuo’s hunched shoulders in front of him. Simon leads them past the cluster of laughter and half-heard conversations at the front of the restaurant and all the way to the back, where half-curtains provide some modicum of privacy for the low tables. Izaya’s seen this part of the restaurant before -- once when he and Shizuo came with a group of six people at once and needed the space, and twice for work when the pseudo-privacy was more important -- but the space Simon shows them to is one he hasn’t been in before, offering the same curtain as the others but a far smaller table, barely big enough for two instead of the longer ones in the rest of the space. Simon ducks out while Shizuo is still shedding his jacket, and by the time he’s returned with cups of tea too hot to touch they’re both settled under the table so close Izaya can and does bump Shizuo’s knees with his.

“Wait for special,” Simon tells them as he steps back and clear of the curtain he’s holding aside from the front of the booth. “Christmas very busy, good time to spend with friend. Drink, talk!” And he’s gone, letting the curtain fall shut behind him as he calls a greeting to someone else at the front of the shop.

“You definitely made the right decision,” Izaya drawls, cutting his eyes across the table at Shizuo. “We might even get something to eat before midnight.”

Shizuo frowns at him. “Shut up,” he says, and reaches for his glass without thinking. His fingers touch the metal stripe around the glass, he hisses reaction at the burn, and Izaya angles his elbow in against the table and rests his chin in his hand as Shizuo shakes his fingers free of the heat. “We weren’t going to get anything to eat at all if we stayed at your place.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” Izaya says. Shizuo is still flinching at the burn; when he lifts his hand it’s to catch his mouth around two of his fingers to suck relief against the skin. Izaya can feel his spine prickle electricity at the sight of Shizuo’s lips against his fingers, can feel his eyelashes go heavy with suggestion, but he doesn’t look away, doesn’t give the heat in his veins time to dissipate. “We could keep ourselves occupied.”

Shizuo flinches, his gaze sliding off Izaya’s stare as his cheeks darken; when he draws his burnt fingers free of his mouth Izaya only has a moment to see the shine of wet against his skin before Shizuo drops his hand off the edge of the table and to the bench at his side.

“This is stupid,” he says, softly enough that Izaya has to lean in over the table to hear him clearly. “Is it going to be like this all the time?”

Izaya blinks at him. “Your coherency is stunning as ever, Shizuo. Like _what_?”

Shizuo looks back up at him through the shadow of his hair. In the dim his eyes look almost black, the set of his soft-bruised mouth looks like a taunt to drag Izaya’s attention. “We were kissing for _hours_ ,” he says, growling the words like they’re an objection instead of a reminder of heat to flush Izaya’s cheeks with remembered friction and to curl his hand into an involuntary fist on the memory of Shizuo’s hair under his fingers. “It’s barely been twenty minutes since we left and.”

He cuts himself off, his cheeks darkening to crimson, and Izaya can feel his own face burning into heat but he swallows anyway, clears his throat of the rising tension and licks his lips back to moisture before he asks, “And what?” with as much lilting innocence on his tone as he can muster, which turns out to be not a lot.

Shizuo’s gaze drops visibly from Izaya’s eyes to his mouth, the motion so clear Izaya can feel his skin flush all-over hot even before Shizuo braces his elbows on the table and leans in to growl, “I just want to drag you over here and pick up where we left off.”

“You’re showing remarkable self-restraint,” Izaya drawls. “I’d be proud of you in other circumstances.”

Shizuo huffs a laugh. For a moment the shadows in his expression lighten, ease into amused delight as startling as the sun coming out from behind a cloud; it leaves Izaya breathless, skidding his heartbeat fast in his chest as Shizuo asks, “Is it going to be like this all the time?”

“I hope not,” Izaya allows. “I won’t be able to get any work done if it is.”

“Mm.” Shizuo’s leaning in closer, his weight resting heavy on the elbow braced against the table; Izaya’s not moving to meet him but he’s not pulling away either, is holding his position and watching Shizuo come closer with each breath. “It’s probably just how long I’ve been thinking about it.”

“Probably,” Izaya agrees. “Shinra is able to be in love and still function normally, after all.” A pause, a moment to pretend consideration. “Somewhat normally, anyway.”

Shizuo huffs a laugh again. “You are such a brat.” He lifts his chin to bump his nose against Izaya’s. “Are you going to make me do all the work here?”

“Demanding,” Izaya purrs, but he’s smiling, he can’t fight back the curve at his lips. He lifts his chin, leans in by a half-inch to catch his mouth to Shizuo’s, and Shizuo rumbles something low and pleased in the back of his throat and reaches out to close his fingers on Izaya’s wrist. Izaya lets him, leaning in instead of pulling away, and for a minute they’re caught over the table with Shizuo’s hand bracing at Izaya’s arm and the steam from their teacups catching damp warmth against Izaya’s hair. Then Shizuo tips closer, his elbow shifts across the table, and he hisses and retreats in a rush as he snatches his hand back from Izaya’s teacup.

“ _Ow_.” He lifts his hand to his mouth immediately, this time, while Izaya is still laughing and rearranging himself into a lean on the other side of the table.

“Once not enough for you?” He reaches for his own cup and toys with the handle with the very tips of his fingers; it’s hot to the touch but not burning, if he keeps the contact brief. Shizuo’s gaze drops to trail the movement, his eyes tangling against the slant of Izaya’s fingers, and Izaya shifts his chin against his bracing palm to catch the shape of his smile behind the cover of his hand.

“Fuck,” Shizuo says, the word half-muffled against the weight of his hand at his mouth, and he’s reaching back out for Izaya’s wrist again. “You’re so--”

“Shizuo!” chirps a voice from the doorway, and Shizuo and Izaya startle away from each other so sharply Izaya knocks his knuckles against the curve of Shizuo’s glass and nearly tips it over into the other’s lap. Shizuo catches it before it falls, hissing again at the heat, but Izaya is looking up instead of at Shizuo, meeting Shinra’s smile and Celty’s phone screen with the calmest expression he can manage past the flutter of his pulse in his throat.

“Shinra,” he says, and with a nod past Shinra’s shoulder: “Celty. Evening.”

“Merry Christmas,” Shizuo puts in. When Izaya glances across the table at him the other is flushed telltale scarlet, but the awkward catch of the teacup at least offers an excuse for the self-conscious roughness under his voice. “We didn’t think we’d see you out here.”

“I didn’t think Shinra would let you leave the bedroom at all,” Izaya teases, looking past Shinra to Celty and raising his eyebrows. “Did you have to tie him up to win a few hours of freedom?”

“Ha!” Shinra laughs, answering on Celty’s behalf while she is still looking down to type frantic denial into her phone. “Celty still refuses to join me in the bedroom in spite of my best pleas.”

“How very modest of her,” Izaya purrs, and he would swear he can feel Celty’s blush manifesting itself in the air around her in the absence of a face to color.

“She insisted we go out for food, though I’ve told her I’m happy to eat anything made by the hands of my love.” Shinra looks over his shoulder to beam at Celty; this only makes her hunch in farther over the screen of her phone, but he’s turning back already to look from Shizuo to Izaya and back again. “Are you two out on a Christmas date as well?”

It’s a testament to Izaya’s distraction, he thinks, that this question catches him so off-guard. It’s a joke he’s made on previous occasions, after all, if rarely to Shinra directly; the shape of the response should come easy to him from practice if nothing else. But what was easy as a lie is hard when it’s suddenly truth, and what he does instead of offering fluid agreement is gape up at Shinra, his open mouth and silent voice giving a completely unplanned answer for him before he can think. Celty is still looking at her phone, typing over her much-edited message, and Shinra is still smiling at the two of them, his face completely absent either suspicion or dawning awareness. And then Shizuo clears his throat roughly from the other side of the table, and says, “Yeah,” before Izaya can decide if he wants to kick him to silence or not. Izaya looks away from Shinra and across to stare at Shizuo instead; Shizuo’s going red, his cheeks coloring into embarrassment as his mouth sets on determination, and he only glances at Izaya for a moment before he looks away to glare up at Shinra instead. He reaches out across the table, his fingers skimming Izaya’s wrist before closing on his fingers, and Izaya still can’t look away from Shizuo’s blush or the tense line of his mouth.

“Oh,” Shinra says, that one word a singular concession to surprise, and then, bright with happiness: “I’m so glad you two worked it out!”

“We did,” Shizuo says, which is good since Izaya’s not sure he can remember how to speak at all.

“Was it just recently?” Shinra wants to know. “Are we interrupting you? We can go, if you want.”

“No,” Shizuo says, fast. The very corner of his mouth twitches for a heartbeat of amusement. “No, we’re fine, you should stay.”

“We will,” Shinra says, and then, in the softer tone he always uses for Celty: “No, I think they’re serious. Aren’t you?” That last brighter and directed towards the two of them, Shizuo still looking up at the other two and Izaya still staring blank shock at Shizuo.

“Yeah,” Shizuo says, sounding half-strangled by the flush darkening and spreading across his entire face. “Yeah, I’m serious.” He glances at Izaya, just for a moment, his fingers tensing hard against the other’s fingers; and Izaya takes an inhale, and blinks, and remembers how to speak again.

“Yes,” he says, and shifts his hand, drawing his fingers free just enough so he can angle them up to interlace with Shizuo’s. There’s the sound of plastic hitting the floor as Celty drops her phone, but Shizuo’s looking back and down at their joined hands, and he’s starting to smile, and Izaya doesn’t look away from the warmth spreading across Shizuo’s face. “We’re serious.”


	53. Hold

“I should go home.”

It’s the first coherent comment Shizuo has offered since they made it back in the front door of Izaya’s apartment and up against the wall alongside said door some fifteen minutes ago, and it takes Izaya a few moments to steady out the haze in his thoughts enough to parse the meaning of the words. When he does it’s enough to make him open his eyes, enough to close the heat-stunned part of his lips into a frown and tighten his fingers into a fist at the back of Shizuo’s collar.

“No,” he says, drawing the one sound out long as if Shizuo’s an idiot who might not understand a more abbreviated pronunciation. “No, you should _not_ go home. What do you need to go home for?”

Shizuo’s gaze slides away from Izaya’s eyes and down to the set of his mouth, lingering there for a long, breathless moment before dipping farther still to settle at the neckline of the other’s shirt. The hand he has caught behind Izaya’s neck slides down, trailing the snow-damp soft of the lining of the other’s coat and hesitating to play with the give of it just alongside Izaya’s collarbone.

“It’s getting late,” Shizuo says, still looking at the motion of his fingers and not the shape of Izaya’s mouth. His forehead is creasing, his mouth tensing on determination, but his eyes are still soft, his focus liquid and unformed as his fingers tug against the edge of Izaya’s clothes. “I have to walk home in the snow.”

“I’ll call you a taxi,” Izaya snaps, feeling all the pleasant hum in his chest tightening into the harsh edge of panic at the idea of Shizuo leaving, at the mere thought of having the empty space of the apartment and the empty hours of the evening to unravel the reality of the day. “You’ve stayed later before, what’s making you so impatient to leave now?”

“It’s snowing,” Shizuo says, but it’s a weak protest and Izaya can hear the uncertainty in his voice, can hear the tremor of fragility under the claim. He’s leaning in closer too, his fingers at Izaya’s hood still gentle but his shoulders tipping in until his mouth is almost against Izaya’s forehead and his nose is skimming the other’s hair. “It’s getting dark already.”

“And you’re afraid of the dark all of a sudden?” Izaya wants to know. He still has a fist on Shizuo’s collar, isn’t lifting his head for the distraction of another kiss; he doesn’t want to lose his current focus, not when it’s leaving his stomach dropping with the unpleasant sensation of freefall, not when his heartbeat is skidding panicky-fast in his veins. “Just stay the night here if you’re so worried about it.”

“Fuck,” Shizuo says, his voice cracking in the back of his throat, and Izaya can feel his forehead creasing, can feel his mouth dragging into unhappiness in spite of the warmth of Shizuo’s breathing against his forehead. “I _can’t_.”

Izaya stares at the line of Shizuo’s collar against his skin. He can see the motion of the other’s throat work when he swallows, can see the faint suggestion of bruised-in color from his own teeth pressed hard into Shizuo’s skin. “Fine,” he says, but he doesn’t loosen the fist he has on Shizuo’s clothes, doesn’t quite manage to flatten the raw edge of injury out of the word. “Get out, then.”

Shizuo’s fingers at Izaya’s hood stall. “Izaya.” Izaya can hear the question under his name, can all but taste the suspicion forming in the air. “Are you _angry_?”

“Get out,” Izaya says, willing his unresponsive hand to let Shizuo’s clothes go but not able to force his grip to loosen.

“Wait,” Shizuo says. “Look at me.”

Izaya ducks his chin further. “Go _home_ , Shizuo.”

“ _Izaya_ ,” Shizuo growls, and then his hand is dropping Izaya’s coat and coming out to catch at the other’s chin and lift his head with no apparent effort at all. Izaya is left frowning into Shizuo’s face before he can look away, the aching hurt behind his eyes too weighty to try to blink clear, and Shizuo groans and lets Izaya go to push his hand through his rumpled hair instead.

“Fuck,” he says, and then, in a rush: “You act like I’m abandoning you. I don’t _want_ to leave. What do I have to do to convince you I’m not going anywhere?”

“You’re going right now,” Izaya says, aware that he sounds petulant but making no real attempt to catch back the sound; he’s too distracted by the tentative easing of the knot in his chest, by the catch of his breathing coming a little easier at the promise under Shizuo’s words.

“It’s _one night_ , not forever.” Shizuo drops his hand from his hair to reach out for Izaya’s shoulder again. His grip is enough to shove Izaya back against the wall, the pressure of his hold enough to catch and maintain Izaya’s attention. “Look.” He takes a breath, audibly bracing himself for his next sentence. “I’m going home so I can jerk off before you kill me with another three hours of teasing.” Izaya’s eyebrows go up, Shizuo’s cheeks go red, but he clears his throat hard and keeps talking in spite of the embarrassment clear all across his face. “It’s a little weird to fantasize about you when you’re on the other side of a bedroom door.”

“Yeah,” Izaya says, hearing his voice echoing oddly in the sudden rush of his heartbeat in his ears. “You’re right, Shizuo, that _is_ weird.”

“So I have to leave,” Shizuo says, sounding relieved in spite of the self-consciousness staining his cheeks to crimson. “The sooner the better, actually.”

“You don’t,” Izaya corrects, and reaches out to fit his free hand against Shizuo’s hip. His fingers curl into the beltloop of Shizuo’s slacks, his hold tightens, and Shizuo stumbles forward in reflexive response to the force, his foot falling into the space between Izaya’s just as Izaya arches off the wall and towards the other’s body. “It’s a lot less weird if we’re on the same side of the door.”

“Shit,” Shizuo says, and his fingers are tightening at Izaya’s shoulder, his free hand is coming out to brace at Izaya’s hip, but he’s not shifting forward in response to Izaya’s offer, he’s holding to the other like he’s trying to find the determination to push him away. “It’s been half a day, Izaya, I can’t go to bed with you _tonight_.”

“It’s been _six years_ ,” Izaya counters. “What else do you have to give me as a Christmas present?”

“ _Jesus_ ,” Shizuo blurts, but it’s half a laugh, and when Izaya arches up again Shizuo’s leaning in to meet him, ducking his head to huff amusement against the other’s mouth as Izaya drags his hips in closer. “I’m not going to sleep with you for Christmas.”

“No?” Izaya pushes off the wall entirely, takes a half-step in to run up against Shizuo’s chest; Shizuo’s hand slides from his hip to the small of his back, his fingers spreading wide like he’s trying to catch Izaya’s balance for him, and Izaya smiles and lets himself lean into Shizuo’s hold. “Don’t you want to fuck me, Shizuo?”

“God,” Shizuo breathes, and takes a step backwards, a retreat of barely a few inches that Izaya follows too fast for it to be a reprieve for either of them. “Of _course_ I--”

“You could,” Izaya purrs, and Shizuo’s eyelashes flutter, his lips parting on expectation even as Izaya walks him backwards across the floor by his forward motion and the hold he has at Shizuo’s clothes. “Tonight. Right now.”

“Shit,” Shizuo gasps, and then his backward steps run them up against the back of the couch and he’s reaching out with his free hand to catch himself against Izaya’s hip, to hold their precarious balance as he leans back against the resistance of the furniture. His hands are bracketing Izaya’s body, the weight of his hold easy like the other’s weight is nothing at all between the support of his hands. “Don’t tease me.”

“I’m not teasing you,” Izaya tells him, and lifts a leg up to fit his knee alongside the back of the couch next to Shizuo’s hip. Shizuo’s breathing leaves his lungs in a rush as Izaya leans forward, his hands tightening in premonition, and then Izaya lets Shizuo’s slacks go to brace at his shoulder and swing himself up and forward to straddle Shizuo’s body. Shizuo’s fingers dig against his hips, Shizuo groans a noise of almost-pained heat, and Izaya’s whole body is going hot at how hard Shizuo is against him, at the resistance of Shizuo’s cock pressing against the inside line of his thigh. Izaya rocks his hips forward, a deliberately drawn-out motion to grind himself against the other; Shizuo’s hands tighten, he draws Izaya hard against him, and when his hips come up it’s with the rough impulse of reflex instead of something more studied and careful. Izaya’s breath hitches, his cock twitches heat against the weight of his jeans, and he pushes himself forward in abrupt, helpless response, the action near-violent with desperation. Shizuo groans heat, his knees shift wider; and their balance goes, the loss of Shizuo’s brace against the floor enough to send them both toppling over the back of the couch. Shizuo shouts something incoherent, his hand coming out to catch at Izaya’s waist like he can save himself, but Izaya just tightens his hold at Shizuo’s neck, bracing himself against the support of the other’s body as a barrier against the impact of their landing. They land hard against the couch cushions, first Shizuo and then Izaya atop him, and for the first moment Izaya is too breathless to think.

“Fuck,” Shizuo says, sounding nearly as winded as Izaya feels. “Are you okay?”

Izaya takes a breath. “Yes,” he says, not sure if it’s truth or a lie, and shifts against Shizuo until the other groans and grabs against his hip to hold him still or draw him closer, Izaya doesn’t wait to find out. He has one knee against the cushions, the other leg angled down between Shizuo’s, and when he reaches out to brace himself against the arm of the couch he can get enough traction to grind his hips up and forward against the heat of Shizuo’s thigh between his.

“ _God_ ,” Shizuo blurts, and he’s twisting, turning sideways to tip Izaya off onto the cushions as he rolls over onto his shoulder. Izaya’s legs are still tangled with Shizuo’s, his arm still caught around the other’s neck and his hand spread bracing against Shizuo’s shoulder, and he doesn’t let go; if anything the shift in angle is better for him, since it gives him the leeway to get his leg up and around Shizuo’s hip. Shizuo chokes off a desperate noise, his hand dropping to catch at Izaya’s thigh, and Izaya arches forward like Shizuo’s touch is encouragement or at least permission to keep going. His jeans are caught between Shizuo’s hip and his, the angle of his zipper pressing hard against the heat of his cock, and it should be painful but the friction rising along his spine feels like a promise instead of hurt.

“Izaya,” Shizuo gasps, and his hand is sliding higher, trailing the seam of Izaya’s jeans up the outside of his leg to find the waistband of his pants. “Izaya, _fuck_ , just.”

“Shizuo,” Izaya breathes, and he can taste fire on his tongue, can feel the electricity along his spine snap and crackle against the back of his teeth. His hand at the couch slips; he shifts his angle, shoves his palm hard against the support. “Don’t--”

“Hold _still_ ,” Shizuo tells him, and there are hands at Izaya’s hips, an unstoppable force shoving him over and back across the couch. Izaya’s bracing arm is knocked loose, his view of the room veers dizzily, and then Shizuo’s leaning in over him, the press of his weight enough to pin Izaya immovably to the couch. “Just wait a second.”

Izaya tries to rock himself up again. He can’t help it. The movement is as much reflex as it is conscious; his entire body is shaking with desire for a little more friction, for a moment’s more pressure. But Shizuo’s hold might as well be the weight of the world for all Izaya can move against it; even the full force of his body straining against that weight achieves nothing except a shudder down his spine, a tremor of awareness of his own helplessness to Shizuo’s hold. Izaya tries again, half out of the frantic need for friction and half out of the desire to feel how completely his attempts stall out against Shizuo’s hands, and he can feel his back arching, can feel the weight of his hand at Shizuo’s neck tensing with desperate premonition.

“Here,” Shizuo says, and shifts his weight to brace his knees better against the couch. “Just--” and he leans forward, and his leg presses against Izaya’s jeans, and Izaya makes a sound he’s never heard from his own throat before and shudders himself into orgasm against the weight of Shizuo leaning against him. Shizuo hisses an inhale of surprise, his fingers tightening at Izaya’s hips, but Izaya can’t clear his vision to see Shizuo’s expression; he’s too busy shaking, his whole body trembling through waves of heat that catch and break against the resistance of Shizuo’s unthinking hold. His toes are curling, his fingers tensing like Shizuo’s shoulder is a lifeline, and his throat keeps whimpering low pleading sounds like he’s in pain, like he’s forgotten how to breathe for the heat in his veins. Every pulse of heat runs up at Shizuo’s fingers, each jerk of his cock inside his jeans presses hard at Shizuo’s thigh against him, and by the time the tremors of pleasure finally subside enough to let Izaya fall slack over the couch he feels so spent the very act of breathing takes conscious effort.

“Holy fuck,” Shizuo breathes, his voice catching at the space between the words like he has to think through the meaning of them. “You just.”

Izaya blinks his eyes open, struggles up out of the haze of heat knocking him incoherent so he can drag himself back into focus on Shizuo instead. Shizuo’s staring at him, his eyes wide with shock that Izaya can feel hot as a blush across his cheeks, but his pupils are dilated dark, the black of them blown so wide Izaya can barely see the color of his eyes even as close as they are. Shizuo’s eyes flicker across Izaya’s face, cling to his lips for a moment before swinging back up to meet his gaze again. “I barely touched you.”

Izaya licks his lips. “Yeah,” he says, and he would like that to come out as a drawl but it grates over the back of his throat, turns itself into a strange low note like the satisfaction radiant in his veins is spilling over into his speech. Shizuo’s eyelashes flutter, his throat works on a swallow, and Izaya lifts his hand from its bracing hold over his head so he can fit it between the shadow of Shizuo’s body and the tremor still humming through his own. “You’re a real professional, Shizuo, clearly your skills are unparalleled.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo says, but he’s distracted, his gaze is still wandering across Izaya’s features as if he’s trying to memorize them. “I didn’t realize--”

“That I wanted it that much?” Izaya suggests. He’s found out the front of Shizuo’s slacks, can fit his thumb just inside the top edge of the waistband to brace against the fastenings; Shizuo takes a sharp, startled inhale, his eyelashes dipping for a moment of unfocus, and Izaya lets his hand drop down to press against the front of the fabric instead. “That I’m desperately hot for your inhuman strength?” His wrist angles up, his fingers tense, and Shizuo makes a choking sound of raw heat over him and bucks his hips forward to grind his cock hard against Izaya’s palm. Izaya can feel the line of the zipper, can feel the slick drag of the fabric between them, but mostly he can feel the heat, Shizuo hard and hot enough for him to make out specifics of breadth and length even through the other’s clothes. Izaya has to swallow to clear his throat, has to strain to find any kind of steadiness to his voice, and even when he draws his fingers up and away to work open the other’s slacks he doesn’t look away from the dark of Shizuo’s lashes against his cheeks. “Come on, Shizu-chan, I thought you put two and two together when you set my fingers that one time.”

Shizuo groans, half irritation and mostly heat. “Don’t call me that,” he says, but his slacks are coming open under Izaya’s fingers and he doesn’t open his eyes to underline the force of the command. “Fuck, _Izaya_.”

“Right,” Izaya says, because he can’t find the concentration to offer an appropriately biting comment in response. “I forgot.” It’s a weak reply, flimsy compared to his usual, but Shizuo still huffs a laugh over him, his mouth going soft on an involuntary smile as Izaya seeks out the elastic of his boxers and curls his fingers under the fabric.

“You didn’t,” he says, but it sounds tender, sounds affectionate and soft in a way that shudders down Izaya’s spine like a much-delayed aftershock. “You never--” and then Izaya touches his fingers to hot skin, and Shizuo’s entire body jerks forward against the touch as whatever he was going to say fails and dies to a groan in the back of his throat. “ _Fuck_.”

“Yeah,” Izaya says, more weakly than he would like but with the most coherency he has to offer. He pushes his hand farther, curls his fingers carefully around the heat of Shizuo’s cock, and his heart is pounding and his breathing is catching and Shizuo’s shaking over him, his hands at Izaya’s hips flexing so tight Izaya can feel the ache of it, his chin tipped down so his hair falls over the familiar lines of his face. Izaya licks his lips, swallows hard, and then he tightens his hold and draws up and Shizuo makes a low, shattered noise and reaches up to grab hard at Izaya’s shoulder instead of his hip. His fingers dig in against Izaya’s skin, his thumb catches and weights heavy at Izaya’s pulse point, and Izaya moves again, dragging his hold up over the other’s length while he watches Shizuo’s entire expression tense and relax alternately with each movement of his hand. Shizuo’s hot against his palm, the head of his cock slick with precome that catches at Izaya’s fingers as he moves, and Izaya’s sure his motion is less than elegant but Shizuo’s gasping like he can’t remember how to breathe and that’s fine, that’s enough.

“You were right,” Izaya manages, hearing his voice crack in his throat as the prickling heat of self-awareness washes up his spine and tingles against the back of his skull. “Sex tonight would have been a really bad idea.” His thumb is only barely overlapping with his fingers, even when he tightens his hold on Shizuo as much as he can. “I’m going to need at least a week of prep to take you, Shizuo.”

“Fuck,” Shizuo gasps, and he’s leaning in closer, his shoulders weighting at Izaya’s to pin them down against the couch while he presses his face against the other’s neck. “ _Izaya_.”

“I should have known,” Izaya says, because the words are still coming up his throat and it’s impossible to remember how to stop talking when he can feel Shizuo gasping heat against the side of his neck and can feel every drag of his hand telegraphed to the press of Shizuo’s thumb at his throat. “I’ve always said you were a monster.” He drags up over Shizuo again, slicking his thumb hard against the head of the other’s cock, and Shizuo’s hips jolt forward, a sudden reflexive movement to buck him forward against Izaya’s hold. Izaya tightens his fingers at the back of Shizuo’s neck, turns his head sideways; when he breathes in he can taste smoke on his tongue, can feel his heart speed in his chest like the scent is carrying a rush of nicotine with it. “I had no idea I was so right.”

“Izaya,” Shizuo chokes, sounding like he’s aiming for a reply of some kind; and then Izaya strokes over him, and Shizuo shudders through another rush of heat, and whatever he was going to say is completely lost to the sound he groans against Izaya’s throat. Izaya shuts his eyes, and breathes in at Shizuo’s hair, and when he drags up again he can feel Shizuo’s hissing inhale against his skin, can feel the tension skid to weight Shizuo’s fingertips at his shoulder. Izaya’s heart is pounding, his whole body flushed to heat somewhere between post-orgasmic satisfaction and the leading edge of renewed arousal, and Shizuo is panting at his shoulder and hard against his hand and Izaya’s making a fist of his hair without thinking, winding his fingers into the strands as if Shizuo is making the least attempt to pull back, as if the intensity of Izaya’s hold would make the least difference if Shizuo really did want to get away. But he’s not pulling away, and he’s not going, and then Izaya takes a breath and Shizuo groans “ _Izaya_ ” and shudders over him, his cock flushing to heat for a moment before he spills over Izaya’s fingers and the front of his shirt. Izaya can feel each wave of heat run through Shizuo, can hear each gasping inhale Shizuo takes against his skin, and his throat is tightening on his breathing, turning his exhale into an involuntary moan as Shizuo comes against him. All his skin is hot, his heart is pounding frantic in his chest, and even when Shizuo’s convulsive tremors still to calm Izaya doesn’t let go, doesn’t let his fingers unwind from their hold. They just stay as they are for a long moment, Shizuo gasping deep lungfuls of air against Izaya’s shoulder and Izaya feeling his heartbeat flutter under Shizuo’s thumb and wondering if Shizuo can feel it too.

“God,” Shizuo finally says, after what feels like an unreasonably long time and no time at all. His voice is as rough as if he’s been shouting instead of just gasping air; when he loosens his hold against the other’s shoulder Izaya can feel the tremor in his hands as he pulls back. “Izaya.”

There’s any number of things Izaya could say. There’s teasing, or innuendo, or gloating, all kinds of easy snarky comments he could offer in answer to the grating rumble of Shizuo purring his name against his neck. But when he takes a breath he can feel it like a weight in his chest, can feel his whole body tremble with the sudden onset of exhaustion, and when he lets his sticky hold go it’s only so he can catch at Shizuo’s hip instead to urge the other down against him. Shizuo tips sideways instead, landing along the edge of the couch instead of on top of Izaya, but his arm stays where it is, draped across Izaya’s shoulders like a brace to hold him in place. Izaya turns his head and blinks himself into focus; Shizuo is watching him, his eyes still almost-black with heat and his lips still parted on the rush of his breathing. He blinks as Izaya turns, his lashes dragging heavy against his cheeks, and Izaya can feel that pressure inside his chest swell and ache, can feel the heat of affection so strong it presses against his ribcage until it feels like it’s only the weight of Shizuo’s arm over him holding him together at all.

Izaya takes a breath, lets it out in a rush. There’s too much in his chest, relief and warmth and nervous adrenaline all together in his veins, until when he opens his mouth all he can find to say is, “Do you still need to go home?”

Shizuo’s whole expression goes soft, his gaze easing as his mouth curves into a smile that catches at the very corners of his eyes. The pressure in Izaya’s chest spikes higher, so sharply painful that for a moment he can’t catch his breath, but Shizuo is leaning in towards him, and pressing his forehead against Izaya’s, and his smile is going wider the closer he gets.

“I’ll call a taxi,” he says, and tips in to kiss gentle friction against the corner of Izaya’s mouth.

Izaya’s chest aches, and his throat tenses, and his eyes burn, but when he closes his eyes to lean closer to Shizuo’s mouth it’s a smile that catches at his lips.


	54. Dangerous

“Thank you both for coming by,” Shiki says as he takes the lead down the hallway to the unassuming front door of the Awakusu-kai headquarters. “You’re not our only source of information, but I admit you are always the most pleasant to work with.”

“Of course,” Izaya says, his voice as smooth as the pace of his strides down the familiar hallway. “Modern business requires some level of social graces, after all.”

“You understand,” Shiki agrees, his tone suggesting that he had anticipated Izaya’s answer, that they have been following the lines of some rote dialogue rather than having an unstructured conversation. He glances back behind them, to the shadows of his own bodyguards left in the last doorway they passed through and to Shizuo, following Izaya so closely Izaya doesn’t have to look back to be sure he’s there. “And you too, of course, Heiwajima-kun.” Izaya can hear Shizuo miss a step, can hear the hiss of a startled inhale the other takes at being acknowledged, but he doesn’t look back to see his expression; he’s watching Shiki instead, his attention suddenly fixed tight on the calculation behind the other’s steady consideration of Shizuo. “I had heard rumors that Orihara-kun had finally procured the bodyguard I’ve been recommending to him. Interesting that it should be you.”

“Of course,” Izaya says, before Shizuo can either open his mouth to speak or remain silent long enough for his nonresponse to form an answer in itself. Shiki’s attention slides off Shizuo to land on Izaya; Izaya tips his head to the side, offers a smile that he knows doesn’t entirely touch his eyes. “It’s important to know you can trust a bodyguard, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Shiki agrees, his tone deliberately neutral, like he’s diffusing any aggression with just the set of his voice and the easy calm in his shoulders. “You two have known each other for, what is it, six years now?”

“Seven,” Izaya says. They’ve nearly reached the front door of the headquarters; when Izaya stops to let Shiki unlock the door Shizuo takes an additional half-step forward, stopping so close Izaya can feel the sleeve of the other’s shirt catching against his jacket. “Childhood friends, you know how it is.”

Shiki looks up from the door, considering Izaya’s deliberately polite smile a moment before glancing up to Shizuo standing over his shoulder. Izaya’s sure Shizuo’s scowling, can all but feel the tension radiating off him; he rocks his hand back without looking away from Shiki or letting his smile flicker and extends his pinky and ring finger to push very slightly back against Shizuo’s wrist. Shizuo’s head turns, his attention dropping to Izaya, and Shiki’s gaze flicks down, skimming over Izaya’s hand for just a moment before coming back up to meet the other’s steady smile.

“Of course,” Shiki says, and pulls the door open for them.

“I hope there’s no hard feelings between us,” Izaya says as he steps forward towards the doorway. “It took months of effort to persuade Shizu-chan to step down from his position in your employ, I assure you.”

“None,” Shiki says without any suggestion of irritation on his voice.

Izaya steps through the doorway and waits until Shizuo is past him before he turns back to look at Shiki. “I could always give you a list of recommendations for replacements if you’re still looking.”

Shiki coughs a laugh, his mouth flickering into a smile for a moment. “No, we’re more than capable of finding staff for our bars on our own.” His gaze slides off Izaya and to Shizuo again, just for a moment; the edge of his smile gives way, but the spark of it flares hotter behind his eyes, drawing tension into his expression like the visible representation of amusement Izaya can’t hear any trace of in his voice when he speaks. “I suspect Heiwajima-kun is better suited for this position anyway.”

Izaya’s smile makes it all the way to his eyes without trying, this time. “That reminds me. Have you heard anything about Blue Square recently?”

Shiki’s expression doesn’t flicker. “They’ve been remarkably quiet,” he says. “I understand their leader was hospitalized a few months ago and in the absence of a strong guide the group effectively dissolved. It would have been right about the time we had to hire a new bartender.” He takes a step back down the hallway and eases his hold on the door. “You knew that, of course.”

Izaya flashes his teeth into a grin that is an answer in itself. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you soon, Shiki-san.” Shiki lifts a hand by a few inches, raising two fingers in a minimal farewell, and Izaya turns away towards the main street even before the door has swung shut behind him. Shizuo takes a moment to react, but then he catches up in a matter of strides, falling into pace just at Izaya’s elbow as he growls frustration and relief in equal parts.

“Fuck,” he says as they round the corner to the main street, his attention only minimally diverted by his search through his pockets for cigarettes. “I hate visiting them.”

“I don’t know why,” Izaya says, looking sideways at the curtain Shizuo’s hair is making in front of his face as he frowns at his pocket. “The Awakusu-kai have never been anything but perfectly polite to both of us.”

“They’re _yakuza_ ,” Shizuo says, retrieving a cigarette and fitting it to the weight of the frown at his lips. “They’ve probably killed people.”

“Probably several people,” Izaya agrees as he slides a hand into his own pocket to retrieve the weight of his lighter. “What’s the problem here?”

Shizuo rolls his eyes. “Don’t be a brat,” he says, and reaches up to accept the lighter Izaya is offering between two fingers. “They’re dangerous and you know it.”

“And you could take out everyone in the room.” Izaya watches Shizuo duck his head over the lighter, watches the curl of Shizuo’s hand cup the flame to safety from the effect of the wind as he lights the end of his cigarette. “They’re dangerous, and we’re dangerous, and we all know it so there’s no problem.”

Shizuo cuts his eyes sideways at Izaya. “Says the adrenaline junkie,” he snaps, but there’s the tug of a smile at the corner of his mouth, and when he flicks the lighter shut and passes it back his fingers linger against Izaya’s wrist for a moment longer than they need to. “I haven’t trusted your sense of danger since middle school.”

“Mm,” Izaya hums, and he has to look down then because he’s smiling too wide to trust his expression. “You’re smarter than you look, you know, Shizu-chan.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo tells him, but when he rocks sideways to bump his shoulder against Izaya’s the motion lacks even the force enough to push Izaya off-balance. Izaya pushes back, with more effort to accompany the action, and Shizuo huffs a laugh and lifts his hand to draw his cigarette away so he can exhale a cloud of smoke into the air.

“I don’t get why he’s getting info from you in the first place,” he says as he replaces the cigarette and fits one hand back into his pocket. The other stays passive at his hip, his fingers deceptively relaxed and so close that Izaya’s sleeve brushes his with each forward step they take. “Why do the yakuza care about high school gangs anyway?”

“You’re underestimating high schoolers,” Izaya tells him, looking up and away from Shizuo’s fingers as he tightens his hold on the lighter in his pocket for a moment. “Just because the color gangs start as kid games doesn’t mean they stay that way. Anything with enough people behind it can become something powerful. Shiki-san is just protecting his interests by staying on top of the news before it becomes a problem.”

Shizuo smiles. When Izaya glances up at him he’s still looking down the street and not at the other, but he hasn’t put his hand back in his pocket in spite of the winter chill on the air. “You make it sound like the city is just an explosion waiting to happen.”

“It is,” Izaya agrees. “Like a fuse waiting for a spark.” He twists the lighter in his pocket, weights his thumb against the lid; and then he eases his hold and lets the weight of the metal drop to the inside of his jacket instead. “Everyone’s dangerous.” He slides his hand free, lets his arm hang heavy at his side as he stares out at the sidewalk in front of them, at the few passersby or clusters of friends in front of restaurants or favorite stores.

“Yeah?” Shizuo says. His hand shifts, his fingers catching at the sleeve of Izaya’s jacket; Izaya can see the other’s head turn, can see Shizuo’s attention drop as his fingertips slide against the curve of Izaya’s palm to fit into the spaces between his fingers. Izaya takes an inhale, feels the cool in the air convert to fire in his chest, and Shizuo lets his breath go and tightens his hold to wrap his fingers around Izaya’s hand. “Us too?”

Izaya looks sideways. Shizuo is looking down still, his lashes shadowing his eyes and his mouth soft as he watches their hands fit together; Izaya keeps looking, keeps watching Shizuo’s face as he curls his fingers into a reciprocal hold, as Shizuo’s mouth quirks onto a smile at the pressure.

“Yes,” he says, and Shizuo looks up at him then, and Izaya lets himself smile, lets the sharp edges of his grin catch at the corners of his mouth as he tightens his hold hard on Shizuo’s hand. “ _Especially_ us.”

Shizuo’s eyes go soft, his smiles tugs wider, but he doesn’t speak; he just leans in closer to bump his shoulder against Izaya’s again, and Izaya looks down to smile at the sidewalk as he leans into the weight of Shizuo’s touch.

Neither of them moves away for the rest of the walk back to the apartment.


	55. Rumor

“It’s always a delight to see you, Mimizu,” Izaya announces as he steps forward into the shadows of the poorly-lit room. “It’s been years, hasn’t it? How have you been?”

“Better than you,” Mimizu purrs from the other side of the room. She’s arranged herself on a barstool, her elbow braced with deceptive casualness against the edge of the bar itself; it would be a more convincing display of unstudied beauty, Izaya thinks, if her hip weren’t so deliberately angled out to press a curve against the fall of her purple dress, or maybe if her shoulders weren’t tipped back to make the most of the plunging neckline baring more skin than anyone would reasonably show with the air in the room carrying the chill of the winter wind on the other side of the doors. “Last I heard you were getting into fights with kiddie gangs, and I...well.” She lifts an arm bare except of a gold bracelet and the tattoo high on her shoulder, gesturing around the room at the cluster of shadowy figures arrayed in a loose semi-circle around her. “I’m sure you can see my success for yourself.”

“Your information is outdated,” Izaya tells her. There’s a chair in the middle of the room, with a high back and enough clear space behind it to allow for the press of bodies directly behind the shoulders of anyone sitting in it; Izaya stops well short of the furniture, barely sparing it a glance and a smirk before he looks back up at Mimizu. He doesn’t look back to the doorway, where Shizuo is slouching with all the irritation he ever shows when Izaya tells him to stay farther than a few feet away during a negotiation; it’s enough that he’s there, enough that his frustration carries all the sincerity of true confusion behind it. Izaya knows without turning that Shizuo is all but vibrating with pent-up adrenaline; he can feel it like a bomb just waiting the flash of a spark to go off, the threat the more effective for how unstated it is. He shrugs instead, sagging his shoulders into deceptive calm as his mouth quirks up; when he looks at Mimizu he does it through his hair, with his chin tipped down to make a taunt out of the shadows in his eyes. “Then again, I can’t expect anything else, when you’re only just now reaching out to me.”

Mimizu’s deliberate smile tightens at the corner of her carefully-painted lips. Izaya wonders if she knows how tense her eyes go at his needling, if she realizes that her fingers are curling against the edge of the bar counter like she’s looking for a victim for her dark nails or thinking about making a fist for a weightier blow.

“That’s not important,” she says, and Izaya bites back the amusement that threatens his throat, the laugh of victory that wants to break free of his lips. “I’m not interested in paying you to update me on the details of your personal life.”

“Of course not,” Izaya says, drawling the words against the back of his tongue. “You want details on the rival gang that’s been dealing drugs to the youth of the city.”

“Sure,” Mimizu says, and her tone is so self-satisfied Izaya’s shoulders stiffen even before she goes on to say: “All in good time, of course, Orihara-kun.”

“Right,” Izaya says, and he’s smiling but he can can feel the tension in the room pick up, can see the figures against the walls shifting in a series of motions that would be indistinguishable from a single source but all together create a wave of threat around the periphery of the room. “Heaven’s Slave can wait, I’m sure the threat they’re posing to Amphisbaena is of no great concern to you.”

Mimizu’s mouth tenses for a moment but her reaction to Izaya’s jab is minimal at best; it’s not enough of a response for Izaya to push on, not a button likely to gain him any traction, and when she blinks it’s gone, abandoned like it was never there at all.

“No,” she says, and she’s unfolding from her stool, uncrossing her legs in a flutter of purple silk and sliding off the seat to the floor. Izaya can hear the separate _clicks_ of her heels hitting the floor one at a time; the added height they grant her leaves her at eye level with him, possibly even with an edge over the deliberately calm slouch he’s taking. “Of course all matters with our Owner take precedence over petty squabbles for territory.” Her voice dips low on the word, heavy enough that Izaya can hear the capital letter on her tongue; he holds his smile while he runs through the list of Amphisbaena members in his head, searching for a familiar name that would overlap both his and Mimizu’s acquaintance.

“You’ve always been a problem for him,” Mimizu is saying as her heels tap across the floor. She’s still smiling but her eyes are dark, like the heavy shadows of her eyeliner are bleeding into the hazel of her eyes to turn them to impossible black. Izaya keeps his hands where they are at his sides; his knife is weighting the pocket of his coat, but he can’t reach for the weapon now without making the action obvious, and there’s no guarantee yet that he’ll need it. “Ever since middle school, you and your _pet_ \--” the tilt of her head towards the doorway leaves no doubt who she’s talking about, “--have been making his life hell. Did you think you had gotten rid of him after your last run-in?”

Izaya lets his smile go wider, lets the fingers of his right hand tense at his side. If he angles his pinky finger out he can feel the ache run along the knuckle, can feel the memory of a long-since healed break humming up his arm. “Ah,” he says, letting all the satisfaction of understanding ring hot in his voice. “I was wondering who he’d get to do the dirty work for him this time.”

Mimizu’s eyes narrow, her mouth tensing on true anger for a moment, and Izaya can feel his grin drag wider on the manic anticipation hot in his veins as she hisses, “Who _he_ got to do the dirty work? You won’t even walk down the street without that monster at your side.”

“That’s true,” Izaya agrees without a moment’s hesitation. “One kidnapping attempt was enough for me to lose my interest in that as a hobby.”

Mimizu’s chin goes up, her breath rushing out in a huff of a laugh with no amusement behind it. “Too bad,” she says, the dark of her lips tugging into a smile Izaya thinks is more involuntary than structured. “I think you could do with another trial run.”

“Mm,” Izaya says, “We’ll have to disagree on that” and he moves fast, stepping back at the same time he reaches for his pocket. Mimizu still has her chin tipped up, still has her weight angled sideways over the precarious balance of a heel; it takes her a moment to react, takes a breath of time before she processes Izaya’s movement, and when she does it’s to take a step backwards, to remove herself from the danger instead of leaning into it. That’s the smart thing to do -- if she’s going to play at leadership she should keep herself out of direct combat -- but Izaya was betting on that, assuming that the heels and the lipstick and the dress all indicated an unwillingness to engage in a direct fight, and when he draws his knife out of his pocket he’s swinging it sideways instead of forward, stepping towards the rush of those shadowy figures instead of bothering with the useless attempt to go after Mimizu. He catches a knife against the blade, hears it skid in a shrill drag of metal-on-metal as he moves, and then he’s turning to face his attacker, snapping his hand sideways to drag his fingers away from any but the most glancing of cuts. He doesn’t even feel the injury; his heart is pounding too fast on the rush of adrenaline that’s hit him, and then there’s a _growl_ from the doorway, a resonance so low Izaya can feel it thrum like thunder through his bones, and he moves towards the wall, twisting to get the support at his shoulders as the wave of Amphisbaena members turns to track him. It’s a stupid move if he’s trying to escape -- there’s too many of them, they have him backed up against the wall in a matter of heartbeats -- but it’s not escape Izaya is angling for, just the brace of the wall at his shoulders and the space to hold his knife out in front of him while he tightens his hold against the slip of blood over his fingers.

“Well,” he says, feeling his grin dragging to the edge of hysteria and making no attempt to stop it. “It’s been fun but I’m afraid our deal is off.” Shizuo’s fist swings, connects with one of the bodies at the back of the group, and Izaya can feel the impact shudder heat down the whole length of his spine until he’s glad for the wall at his back. The figure goes down instantly, skidding across the floor before running up against a table and falling still with the limp weight of unconsciousness. “I don’t work with idiots.”

“There’s only one of him,” Mimizu shouts from her position against the counter; her back is against the support, her hands gripping the edge with white-knuckled force as Shizuo picks up another person bodily and throws him across the room. Izaya’s audience is turning, heads twisting as eyes go wide at the crashing behind them, and Izaya lets his attention flicker, lets the focus in his arm ease as he looks over at Mimizu.

“I don’t need more than one,” he says, too quietly for anyone else to hear, and then one of the Amphisbaena members closest to him does the unspeakably stupid and actually takes a swing at him. Izaya flinches from it, turning away from the impact; it catches at his jaw, the impact stunning with its weight, and he’s stumbling sideways, his balance wavering as his vision flashes to a moment of white-out pain. He’s turning instinctively, twisting to meet the threat with his upraised knife as his feet stumble him to a safer distance, but he doesn’t need to; there’s a white shirt, yellow hair, the arc of a fist through the air to crush blood into the attacker’s face as the shape of a nose gives way to Shizuo’s fist. Izaya takes a breath that tastes like fire on his tongue and lets his shoulders ease; by the time Shizuo is shoving the last of the Amphisbaena members to sag boneless against the wall Izaya has flicked his knife back to closed, is fitting it into his pocket as he steps forward towards Mimizu’s wide eyes and white knuckles.

“This was clumsy,” Izaya tells her as she looks past him to where Shizuo is turning towards them, as her mouth comes open on unmitigated fear. “Did you really think you were going to get the upper hand by throwing your toughest members at us?”

“He’s not human,” Mimizu says, cringing back against the counter as Shizuo comes forward, the pace of his footsteps heavy behind Izaya.

“Really,” Izaya says, and reaches his arm out without looking to catch his fingertips against Shizuo’s wrist. The other’s forward movement stalls, he turns to scowl irritation at Izaya, and Izaya can feel the power at his fingertips lance hot all through his body, can feel the weight of that held-back advance purr up his whole arm and shudder fire down the length of his spine. When he speaks his voice dips low on the awareness, the words adopting shadows to match the curl of heat in his blood, until “Is that what you think,” comes out more as a laugh than a question.

Mimizu’s eyes shift from Shizuo, trailing down the line of white sleeve to Izaya’s feather-light touch holding him back before her attention jumps back up to Izaya’s face, her eyes wide and dark with the horror of uncertainty. Izaya smiles, and tips his head, and when Shizuo says “Izaya--” he tightens his hold at the other’s wrist to cut off whatever he was going to say.

“We don’t know anything about Nakura,” he says, casually, adopting the same deliberately professional tone he had when he came in. Shizuo’s hand tenses, his fingers curling into almost-a-fist at the name; Izaya can feel the tendons in Shizuo’s wrist move under his hold. “He’s gone, left town as soon as he got out of the hospital. He’s probably cities away by now, trying to forget Ikebukuro ever happened to him.”

Izaya lifts his chin, widens his smile. “Don’t worry about paying me,” he says, even though the shadows behind Mimizu’s eyes say her fear will speak for her, that the details of the too-brief fight will spread to take on the mythological proportions that will do Izaya far better in terms of reputation than any sum of money could. “Consider it an advance on future business deals.”

When he turns his back on Mimizu, there’s no tension in him but the shudder of heat at the back of his thoughts and the strain of Shizuo’s wrist under his fingertips.


	56. Persuasive

Shizuo manages to stay quiet while they’re inside. Izaya can feel the other’s wrist straining under his fingers, can feel the flex of adrenaline in the tendons under his touch, but he doesn’t look to meet the shadows in Shizuo’s eyes, and Shizuo doesn’t speak as they cross the dim-lit room towards the glow of wintery sunlight from the window in the door. Izaya pushes the door open, Shizuo follows him through, and then, in near-perfect synchronization with the door swinging closed behind them:

“You’re bleeding,” low, softer than Izaya was expecting but no less dangerous for that, not when he can’t trust himself to look sideways to see the way Shizuo is looking at him.

“It’s fine,” Izaya says, hearing his voice quiver in the back of his throat as he gauges the distance to the nearest side-street. They’re in a quiet part of town -- isolation is valued for most of the groups they go to meet with -- but the street they are on still has a handful of passersby, some even paying enough attention to blink a moment of surprise when they see the bloody grip Izaya has on Shizuo’s wrist. “It’s a scratch.”

“It’s not,” Shizuo tells him, and he’s twisting his hand free of Izaya’s hold like it’s not there at all, like Izaya’s full-strength grip is a casual caress instead of bruising force. He steps in closer, his hand comes up to close hard just above Izaya’s elbow, and Izaya stumbles over the rush of adrenaline through his veins, has to force a breath to push back the surge of heat that spikes up his spine. “Your lip too--” and there’s a ghost of a touch, Shizuo’s thumb catching at the corner of Izaya’s mouth, and Izaya’s exhale goes to fire, catching sound in the back of his throat to turn the silent gust of air into something uncannily close to a moan. Shizuo snatches his hand back as if he’s burned, or as it’s his fingers that are flame and he’s felt Izaya’s skin blistering under his touch. “Did I--”

“It’s fine,” Izaya says again, and he’s still not looking at Shizuo but it is fine, everything is alright because they’re halfway down the block and the shadows of the next cross-street promise the semi-privacy of darkness. “Shut up.”

“Izaya.”

“Shut _up_ ,” and Izaya takes the corner too fast, stepping aside off the main street with no warning at all. For a moment Shizuo’s hold at his elbow urges him forward, Izaya’s turn shifted to a diagonal by the inertia of the other’s motion; then Shizuo curses unintelligibly, and stumbles to pivot his weight as well, and they’re both moving into the shadows of the alley at a pace more of a controlled collapse than a walk. Izaya’s twisting back, reaching to grab for Shizuo’s vest before he’s caught his balance, and Shizuo trips and throws a hand out and catches himself with a bracing hold just over Izaya’s shoulder as Izaya falls back against the wall.

“What--” Shizuo starts, and that’s as far as he gets before Izaya is reaching to make a fist of yellow hair and drag Shizuo’s mouth down against his. He can’t twist his arm free of the hold Shizuo still has on him -- the force is unbreakable in spite of the gentleness Izaya can feel under Shizuo’s fingers, like the other is trying to hold him to his feet without leaving bruised-in evidence of his grip -- but he can shove his palm against Shizuo’s vest, can curl his fingers into a fist against the dark fabric to leave crimson fingerprints soaking unseen into the cloth. Shizuo makes a startled noise against his mouth, the start of a “ _Fuck_ ,” Izaya thinks, but he’s leaning in closer in spite of his surprise, his hold at Izaya’s elbow easing as Izaya drags at his shirt. His lips are soft, the pressure of his mouth gentle, but he tastes like blood; Izaya can’t tell whose it is caught between them, can’t be sure if it’s from the ache of his own split lip or the inside of Shizuo’s mouth torn to bleeding from the impact of a punch to the face he took on Izaya’s behalf. Izaya licks against it anyway, catches the metallic bite of the liquid all the way back on his tongue, and then he gets his teeth against Shizuo’s lip and Shizuo makes a low sound in the back of his throat and pushes him harder back against the wall. Izaya works his arm free, dragging himself loose of Shizuo’s distracted hold, and then he’s got both hands in Shizuo’s hair and is clinging to the other’s shoulders as his single point of balance while he arches himself off the wall behind him in pursuit of the press of Shizuo’s body against his.

“Jesus,” Shizuo gasps, but he’s forcing Izaya back, is fumbling a hand down against Izaya’s hip to close hard against the top edge of the other’s jeans. His fingers slip against the soft of dark fabric, Izaya’s shirt pushes up to bare skin, and Izaya shudders against the weight of Shizuo’s fingers on him, against the gentleness in those bruised knuckles, his skin flashing to heat at the contact in spite of the chill of the air around them. “What the _fuck_ , Izaya?” Shizuo’s hand slides sideways, pushing up under the fall of Izaya’s shirt and the weight of his jacket at once until his palm is pressing hard against Izaya’s spine, until the friction of the contact is taking as much of Izaya’s weight as his own feet. “Shouldn’t we at least go back to your apartment?”

“No,” Izaya says, and drags hard at Shizuo’s shirt, tipping the other’s balance forward until Shizuo stumbles forward to pin him closer to the support at his back. Shizuo’s shoulders make a wall against the rest of the world; when Izaya fits his mouth in against the rumple of Shizuo’s collar he can taste smoke against his mouth. “Here is fine.”

“Here is _not_ fine,” Shizuo says, but there’s a shudder of stunned laughter in his voice to undermine his own claim. Izaya shifts his weight, angles his knee between Shizuo’s, and Shizuo groans something low and unintelligible in the back of his throat but he takes a step wider too, making enough space for Izaya to fit his leg between Shizuo’s. “We can’t just--” and Izaya rocks forward, arching off the wall and against the front of Shizuo’s slacks, and Shizuo’s words die off to a groan, his hand dropping from the wall to clutch at Izaya’s hip instead. “ _Izaya_.”

“We can,” Izaya says, tasting the crack and bite of truth at the back of his tongue as he fits the words to honesty. “No one would stop us.” Shizuo’s fingers are tightening at his hip but he’s not pushing him away; Izaya angles one arm over Shizuo’s shoulder, lets the other take the burden of his weight for a moment as he hooks his leg up and around Shizuo’s hip so he can draw himself closer. “No one would _dare_.”

“You’re crazy,” Shizuo says, but his fingers are fitting along the pattern of Izaya’s spine, and he’s pressing his face in close against Izaya’s shoulder to take a deep inhale against the side of his neck. “Do you get off on exhibitionism that much?”

“It’s not the exhibitionism,” Izaya purrs, and Shizuo’s fingers tighten against his hip for a moment of pressure that says he knows that as well as Izaya. Izaya arches farther off the wall, grinding himself against the unflinching support of Shizuo’s thigh between his legs, and Shizuo groans as his hand slides down to catch the back of Izaya’s jeans and drag him in closer. For a minute Izaya can’t remember how to breathe, caught between the wall of Shizuo’s shoulders and the brace of his hold; then Shizuo’s hips come forward, and Shizuo presses him back hard against the wall, and Izaya whimpers in a high, desperate range he doesn’t recognize in his own throat. “ _Fuck me_ , Shizu-chan.”

“Don’t,” Shizuo says, but it’s a cut-off protest and weak to begin with, undermined by the rhythm he’s setting with his hips as he bucks forward against Izaya’s leg. Izaya’s hot all over, his spine prickling with electricity that just surges hotter with every grinding motion Shizuo takes to push him back against the wall behind him. “I’m not…” He presses his mouth to Izaya’s neck, takes a deep inhale like he’s trying to steady himself. “I’m not going to have sex with you in an _alley_.”

“You sure?” Izaya asks. He slides his hand free of Shizuo’s shoulders, trailing his fingertips down the line of black cut by the edge of the other’s vest down to the front of his slacks. His fingers fit against the resistance of Shizuo’s cock through the fabric, his palm presses hard against the heat; when he pushes in Shizuo’s eyelashes flutter, his mouth coming open on a moan as his hips jerk reflexively forward. Izaya can feel his thigh tense with the force, can feel the pressure grind against him in turn, and for a moment he feels like he’s burning, like all his skin is coming alight until he could set the air itself on fire with the heat in his veins. “You sure seem like you’re trying.” He pushes in harder, tensing his fingers against the line of Shizuo’s cock; Shizuo whines, gasping against Izaya’s hair, and Izaya can feel himself go harder for a shuddering moment, as if the desire in his veins is directly linked to the sound in Shizuo’s throat. “I wouldn’t mind,” he says, and he sounds raw, he knows, can hear his voice catching in the back of his throat into heat he can’t strip off, but he doesn’t care; he’s starting to shake, his whole body trembling into an excess of sensation, and he doesn’t have the attention to spare for calm or for silence either one. “Just give me a couple fingers and a little spit, I’m sure we’d be fine.”

Shizuo’s laugh is weird, harsh and breaking until it sounds as much like a sob as amusement. “I’d _hurt_ you.”

“I don’t mind,” Izaya says, and then, in a spill of unfettered honesty: “I’d probably come faster anyway.”

“God,” Shizuo gasps into his hair. “You really are a masochist.”

“Yeah,” Izaya says, and angles off the wall as he tightens his fingers, drawing a groan from Shizuo’s throat to match the breathless heat in his own. “Come on, Shizuo, you know you want to.”

“I _do_ ,” Shizuo says, and then he’s letting his hold on Izaya’s hip go to grab at his hand instead, to drag Izaya’s touch away and pin his arm to the wall above his head. Izaya can feel the action shudder heat through his whole body, electricity uncoiling through him from the casual force of Shizuo twisting his arm up and away as if Izaya wasn’t even trying to fight him. For a moment they’re framed like that, Shizuo’s hand at Izaya’s wrist and Izaya’s bloody fingers in Shizuo’s hair; then Shizuo blinks slow, and lets out a breath, and Izaya can see the shadows in his eyes ease even before the tension in his expression smooths to calm.

“I do,” he says, and tugs at Izaya’s wrist to lift the other’s hand to his lips. Izaya can feel the tension in his hand go slack, his fingers falling open in passive surrender to Shizuo’s hold, and then Shizuo turns his head sideways and catches his mouth against the very center of Izaya’s palm, fitting the weight of his lips to the tracery of lines running across the other’s hand. His eyes dip shut, his lashes carrying the weight of heat as they close, and all the air leaves Izaya’s chest at once, his lungs emptying themselves at the too-delicate touch of Shizuo’s mouth against the open angle of his hand. It’s too gentle, it’s too tender, and it’s not what he’s craving but the contact is undoing some knot in his chest, unravelling the strands of some tension he didn’t even know was there to leave him sagging boneless against the support of the wall at his back and Shizuo’s hold on him.

“Not here” Shizuo says without pulling away, and Izaya wants to protest but his voice is stolen by Shizuo’s lips against his skin, by Shizuo’s words humming soft against the lines of his palm. Shizuo draws back, and blinks his eyes open, and when he looks back to Izaya there’s still that sweet darkness behind them, affection so clear in his gaze Izaya can see it without trying. “Let’s go home.”

Izaya’s breath catches. His skin flashes to hot, warmth rising to flush every inch of his body; it’s not fair, that Shizuo should sound so calm on those words, it’s not fair that Shizuo can say something so weighted like it’s nothing, like _home_ is something simple, something straightforward, something to be assumed the same way one assumes _family_ and _affection_ and _love_. There’s a tremor that runs down his spine, a moment of adrenaline so sharp it’s nearly panic, and Shizuo’s expression goes tight on concern, the soft of his mouth tensing into stress in the gap between heartbeats. “Izaya?”

Izaya blinks hard, swallows harder. He’s trembling all through his body, his limbs caught bearing the burden of unsatisfied arousal while his eyes burn with unnamed emotion, and Shizuo is frowning at him with his eyes going dark with the worry Izaya can handle far less well than he can the burn of want.

“Izaya,” Shizuo says again, and he’s starting to pull back, he’s easing his hold on the other’s wrist as if retreating is the right thing to do, as if Izaya wants to feel the chill of the winter air against him. “Are you--”

“Yes,” Izaya says, sharp and fast, and looks up to meet Shizuo’s gaze as he lets the corner of his mouth quirk on amusement. It’s sharp, he knows, whetted to a razor’s edge on the friction of the emotion pressing in his chest and against his throat, but it’s a familiar weight, and a familiar reaction, and when he opens his mouth to purr words they spill into the easy cadence of a taunt on his lips. “You should take me home and fuck me raw, Shizuo.”

Shizuo flushes, his cheeks showing the color of his reaction even before his hold on Izaya’s wrist falls loose, even before his eyelashes dip heavy with whatever mental image he’s seeing. Izaya can make a guess -- he suspects he has the same one -- and he’s laughing even before Shizuo says “ _Izaya_ ” in a tone audibly wavering between arousal and embarrassment. Izaya doesn’t stop for Shizuo’s growl, or for Shizuo’s shove back against the wall; it’s not until the other ducks in to press his mouth to Izaya’s that his laughter flickers and fades into the weight of a moan on his tongue instead.

They stay there for a few more minutes, until Shizuo has lost his blush and Izaya has lost the taste of blood on his tongue; then Shizuo stumbles back, and Izaya relinquishes his hold on Shizuo’s neck for a grip on his hand instead, and they move themselves in the direction of Izaya’s apartment.

When he looks up, Izaya can see the red of his fingerprints clinging to Shizuo’s hair.


	57. First

They don’t make it to the bedroom.

Izaya views this as a victory. He thinks it’s enough that he lasted the whole way back in any case, especially when he can see the impact of the brief fight printed in Shizuo’s hair and in the bruise rising alongside his eye. His mouth is darkened to red, from a punch or Izaya’s teeth, Izaya isn’t sure which and doesn’t care, and Izaya’s own hand is throbbing dull pain up his arm, the narrow score of the cut across the back of his fingers flaring heat in time with the pace of his racing heart. His whole body hurts, aching more with the edge of unfulfilled desire than from the minimal bruises of the fight, and from the dark focus in Shizuo’s eyes as they ascend the stairs to Izaya’s floor he’s not the only one. Shizuo’s hold on Izaya’s hand is tense by the time they’re in front of the door, his lips skimming the other’s hair in the outline of a kiss even as Izaya locates his key and turns over the weight of the deadbolt, and then Izaya’s fumbling with the handle and Shizuo is shoving at the door and they’re both toppling inside, Izaya losing his balance at the sudden removal of the support only to be caught by Shizuo reaching to grab at him. There’s a hand at his waist, fingers catching and dragging at his jacket, and then Shizuo’s pushing and Izaya’s stumbling and the door is swinging shut behind them, latching itself into the promise of privacy while Izaya pulls Shizuo to the floor by the simple expedience of falling down himself. Shizuo follows him without hesitation, his knees hitting the floor as fast as Izaya does, and then Izaya’s arms are around Shizuo’s neck and Shizuo’s hand is on Izaya’s hip and Izaya can taste the bite of anticipation like copper on his tongue.

“Fuck,” Shizuo says. His free hand lands at the floor, pressing hard just over Izaya’s shoulder; Izaya can feel Shizuo’s arm flex as he leans in closer, pressing them both nearer to the floor in complete disregard of the fact that they haven’t actually made it past the entryway. “Izaya, you.”

“Are you done waiting?” Izaya asks, hearing the words skid out on breathlessness in the back of his throat. His hands are trembling, they keep shaking until he closes his fingers to fists against his palms; the movement tears at the scab forming over his cut hand, aching a sharp burst of pain up his arm, but he barely notices except for the heat that comes with it. “Is your sense of decency satisfied? There’s a shut door and everything. We could lock it, even, if you wanted.”

“I don’t care,” Shizuo says. He ducks in closer, catching Izaya’s mouth with his; Izaya arches off the floor in a long, helpless tremor and fumbles his fingers up into a better hold on Shizuo’s hair while he shifts his knees apart under the weight of Shizuo pushing him down to the floor. For a moment Shizuo stays close, the heat of his mouth heavy against Izaya’s; then he pulls back by an inch, just far enough for Izaya to see the shift of his eyelashes and the part of his lips as he gasps for air. “This is fine.”

“ _Finally_ ,” Izaya says, and then he gets his legs free from under Shizuo’s and spreads his knees open to make space for Shizuo’s hips between his thighs. Shizuo makes a weird sound, something half a growl and half a whimper, and his fingers tighten bruise-hard at Izaya’s hip to brace him still as his weight rocks forward in reflexive desperation. Izaya groans at the pressure, at the weight of Shizuo’s body pushing him down against the floor and the heat of Shizuo’s cock digging in against his jeans; and then Shizuo draws back, and manages a breath, and Izaya can see him blinking hard as he struggles for coherency.

“We need--” and then he stops, cutting himself off with a flush of embarrassment. “Don’t we?”

“Yes,” Izaya drawls. “We do, in fact, need lube for this. Luckily for us both I have the foresight you lack.” He tips his head back and lifts a hand to gesture vaguely towards the table alongside the door. “In the drawer.”

“Why do you have it _here_?” Shizuo wants to know as he comes up onto his knees and reaches out to stretch for the table. Izaya doesn’t bother watching; with Shizuo leaning over him he has the perfect angle to unfasten the few buttons of the other’s vest and leave the fabric hanging loose off his shoulders as Shizuo opens the drawer and finds the bottle inside.

“I’m always prepared,” Izaya says, and pushes up off the floor to sit up and reach for the clip of Shizuo’s tie. It slides free easily, even with the uncontrollable tremor humming through Izaya’s fingers, and he abandons it to fall forgotten to the floor as he pushes hard against the button at Shizuo’s collar. “People are easy to predict.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Shizuo tells him, but it comes with a smile and the purr of a breathless laugh, and Izaya has the other’s collar undone and is working down the front of his shirt with far more speed, leaving prints of red on the white from the blood at his knuckles. Shizuo takes a breath, his fingers stalling on the bottle as he sets it down; and then he speaks again, his voice so strained on anxiety Izaya can feel it shiver panic all down his spine. “What about, uh. Protection?”

Izaya stalls the motion of his hands in favor of giving Shizuo the flattest look he can muster. “I’m exactly as likely to get pregnant as _you_ are, Shizu-chan.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Shizuo says, and he’s crimson all over his face but he’s frowning, too, his mouth is set into that line it takes on when he’s ready to walk straight through a wall if he deems it necessary.

Izaya curls his fingers into fists at the open edges of Shizuo’s shirt. “Well then,” he says, in the very flattest tone he can manage. “Who have you been fucking?”

“ _What_?” Shizuo blurts. His mouth comes open, his eyes go wide; Izaya’s not sure he’s ever seen him look so bone-deep shocked. “ _No one_ , what the _hell_ Izaya, why would you--”

“Then we don’t have anything to worry about.” Izaya holds Shizuo’s gaze without blinking. “If _you_ haven’t slept with anyone.”

Shizuo’s the one to blink first, his lashes dipping over the clear dark of his eyes. “So you. You haven’t either?”

“No,” Izaya says, drawling the word to make the absurdity of the question as abundantly clear as he can. “I’m as pure and virginal as you could wish, Shizu-chan.”

Shizuo huffs a laugh, but his eyes are going soft, his smile is going warm at the corners. “You’ve never been pure a day in your life.”

“Mm,” Izaya allows. “Well. Virginal, then. You don’t need to worry about a condom, Shizuo.”

“Okay,” Shizuo says, still red all across his face but starting to smile now, as if this is really any kind of news to him. When he leans in it’s to press his face in against Izaya’s shoulder, to breathe in a deep lungful of air against the collar of Izaya’s shirt. “I’m glad.”

“I don’t know how you thought anything else,” Izaya tells him as he pushes against Shizuo’s shirt to shove the weight of the cloth down the other’s shoulder and along his arm. Shizuo shifts his weight to draw his hand free of the sleeve, and Izaya drags the fabric down his other arm to free the line of Shizuo’s shoulders from anything but the thin layer of his undershirt clinging so close to skin it’s nearly translucent. “I hadn’t even kissed anyone until a few days ago. Did you think I was paying for information with my body?”

“No,” Shizuo says, the word muffled almost out of intelligibility from how close he’s pressed against Izaya’s shoulder. Izaya shrugs himself free of his coat, lets it fall over the floor behind him, and Shizuo groans satisfaction and reaches for the hem of Izaya’s shirt to push it up and off the angle of his hip. “But you made it sound like you knew what you were doing.”

“Yes,” Izaya tells him. “There’s this amazing invention called _porn_ , Shizuo, you can learn all kinds of things without personal experience.” Shizuo huffs a laugh against his neck and Izaya lets himself smile against the tangle his fingers have made of Shizuo’s hair. “You can touch yourself too, you know.” The words are a taunt on his tongue, they drip condescension as he tips himself backwards; Shizuo follows him halfway, stalling his motion as Izaya’s shoulders hit the floor, and Izaya reaches down for his own jeans to push the button open. “You must have been really suffering all this time if you haven’t even been jerking off.”

“I _have_ been,” Shizuo says, so immediately and sincerely that Izaya doesn’t have time to brace himself for the mental image that evokes, for the thought of Shizuo panting against a pillow as his hand jerks hard over the heat of his cock. Izaya’s mouth comes open, his eyelashes go heavy, and he’s still struggling to pull his expression back to neutral when Shizuo’s gaze drops to his stalled out-fingers over the pulled-taut denim of his jeans. “Have you?”

“No,” Izaya deadpans. “No, Shizuo, I’ve spent my entire teenage life without ever touching myself, the truth comes out at last. Now you know why I’m so desperate.”

Shizuo frowns at him. “You’re joking.”

Izaya rolls his eyes. “ _Yes_ , I am joking. Would you like me to spell out the details of my fantasies for you instead?” Shizuo’s mouth comes open, his breathing whimpers into an exhale, and Izaya’s throat goes tight on heat, his body flushing warm like it’s responding to the shadows collecting behind Shizuo’s eyes. “I could give you ideas for what you could do to me right now.”

“No,” Shizuo says, and his fingers are tightening at Izaya’s hip but his other hand is sliding down, abandoning the edge of the other’s shirt to find the front of Izaya’s jeans instead, to work in against the zipper under Izaya’s fingers still stalled at the button. “Later.”

“Okay,” Izaya agrees, pushing the button free and drawing his hand back and out of the way to leave the rest of the process to Shizuo as his fingers start to tremble again. “I’ll leave it to you this time.” He pushes hard against his shoulders at the floor, arches his back to lift his hips clear of the tile under him, and Shizuo’s fingers hook inside his clothes to draw them down and off. It’s not until he’s moving that the adrenaline hits Izaya, that the slide of fabric leaving him exposed to the air in the room prickles self-consciousness down his spine, and by then Shizuo’s dragging his clothes down to his knees, and there’s no chance to even flinch into a slower motion. Izaya’s breath catches, his cheeks darken against his will; and Shizuo lets his breath go in a rush, whimpering something hot and wordless as he looks down to see Izaya’s bare skin. His hand shifts, abandoning the weight of Izaya’s jeans to reach for his hip instead, and then there’s the weight of Shizuo’s hand pressing against bare skin and Izaya’s gasping for air, straining for oxygen that seems to have suddenly left the room in the moment Shizuo’s palm touched him.

“Izaya,” Shizuo breathes, and he’s staring, and Izaya feels distantly like he should be embarrassed, maybe, maybe he should feel self-conscious about how hard he is under Shizuo’s gaze; but it’s distant, a far-off feeling completely overwritten by the rush of heat so strong in him that it’s tensing his chest until it’s hard to catch a breath.

“Are you going to just stare?” Izaya manages to ask, hearing the question thrum itself over into vibration in his throat until it comes out trembling at his lips. All his skin is hot, now, his cheeks flushed warm with no trace of the embarrassment that skimmed them before; his jeans tangled around his knees are too much, the weight of them overwhelming and claustrophobic against the heat in his veins. “Or do you just not know what to do?”

“What?” Shizuo says, and then he looks up to meet Izaya’s gaze. His eyes are darker than Izaya’s ever seen them, the pupils blown wide like they’re trying to swallow up the shadings of color in the irises; when Shizuo blinks his lashes look like charcoal, when he swallows it’s so loud Izaya can hear the motion in his throat. He shakes his head, visibly steadying himself into the moment, and when he looks down again it’s to Izaya’s legs instead of the flush of his cock.

“Fuck.” His hand pulls away, his attention caught by the complexities of stripping off Izaya’s shoes and jeans, and Izaya lets him without further distractions, kicking his feet free of the denim as soon as Shizuo gets his shoes off. The jeans are shoved aside, forgotten as soon as they fall, and then Shizuo is leaning in again like he can’t stay away, his mouth still soft and damp against the rhythm of his breathing as he ducks in towards Izaya’s lips. Izaya lets his knees spread wide, makes space for the width of Shizuo’s hips to fit between his legs, and this time when Shizuo rocks helplessly forward Izaya groans against the press of his lips, the drag of friction directly against sensitive skin too much to allow for silence.

“Oh fuck,” Shizuo gasps, and his hips come forward again, tracing out a half-inch of grinding movement shaky with desperation. “Izaya, _god_ , I want you so much.”

“I know,” Izaya says, his voice cracking in the middle under the weight of the heat pulsing blistering waves under his skin. He reaches sideways with one hand, fumbling in the space next to him without looking, and the other comes out to grab at Shizuo’s hand where it’s braced at the floor alongside his hip, dragging until Shizuo finally takes the hint and shifts his weight enough to lift his fingers from their contact with the floor. “Here.” He shoves the lid up with his thumb, upending the bottle over Shizuo’s hand; the liquid spills across the other’s fingertips, overflowing the catch of his hand and dripping wet over Izaya’s shirt, but Izaya doesn’t so much as shudder at the damp soaking through the fabric. “Do it.”

“Shit,” Shizuo breathes. He’s looking down again, watching the light catch off his fingers as he moves; Izaya tips his knees wider by an inch, watches the way Shizuo’s lashes dip heavy and his throat works over a swallow of reaction. “I’m going to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” Izaya says, because that’s what Shizuo wants to hear more than the far more accurate _I don’t care_. “I’ve been practicing, Shizuo, I can take it.”

Shizuo’s laugh is hot in his throat, more a spill of temperature than of real amusement. “Stop saying that,” he says. “It’s distracting.”

“Stop stalling,” Izaya replies, because it’s only been a few seconds but his heart is racing like it’s been days, weeks, like all the years of waiting are catching up to him all at once to leave him gasping for air he can’t catch from the space around him. “Just _touch_ me, Shizu--” and Shizuo does, all at once, cool-slick fingers pressing flush against Izaya’s skin. Izaya loses track of his words, loses track of his breathing, loses track of himself; and then Shizuo’s hand shifts, and his fingers slide, and he pushes into Izaya past the first knuckle all in one stroke. Izaya’s head goes back, his whole body tenses involuntarily, and Shizuo’s gasping but Izaya’s groaning a bright, clear note that is as much panic as pleasure, his free hand coming up to cling desperate against Shizuo’s shirt as if to hold himself in place. The intrusion is too much, the stretch so sudden it’s knocking all his thoughts loose in his head, and then Shizuo says “ _Oh_ ” shadowed and heavy and shuddering so low Izaya can feel the sound purr all the way up his spine, like it’s spilling from Shizuo’s fingertips out into the rush of his blood in his veins. “Izaya, _fuck_.”

“Shizuo,” Izaya manages, and he’s moving without thinking, his fingers loosing the bottle to topple to the floor as he reaches up to grab and cling at Shizuo’s shoulder too, to steal some of the other’s steadiness to support against his own helpless shuddering. Shizuo’s staring at his hand when Izaya brings his vision back into clarity; it’s not until Izaya says “ _Shizuo_ ” again that the other’s head comes up, that Shizuo blinks hard enough to catch his gaze back into focus on Izaya’s face. His mouth is soft, his forehead creased; he looks a little bit stunned, and a little bit overwhelmed, and mostly he looks hot, radiant as if all the heat in the world is spilling from the texture of his skin.

Izaya tightens his fingers at Shizuo’s shirt. He can feel the soft of the fabric catch at the blood dried across his palm, can feel the stretch of the cloth riding up as he makes a fist of it, but when he pulls Shizuo leans in before the shirt strains, tipping in until the angle of his shoulders casts Izaya into shadow. “Keep going,” Izaya says, hearing stress thrum at the back of his tongue, and Shizuo’s eyelashes flutter, his throat giving up a whimper like Izaya’s just crushed the weight of a punch into his stomach. It sounds pained, like a protest, but Shizuo’s moving before Izaya can reiterate, shifting his wrist and pushing in deeper in another rush of force, and Izaya arches off the floor again, his whole body tensing in one convulsive shudder at the friction.

“There,” he says, before his vision has cleared, “keep going” but Shizuo is moving without waiting for a command, drawing his hand back to thrust in again with the whole length of his finger at once. The pressure forces the air from Izaya’s lungs, tightens his hand into a bruising hold at Shizuo’s shoulder, but Shizuo is groaning for them both, offering a low, anxious sound as he pushes into Izaya. Izaya can feel the sound all down his spine, the weight of the note as immediate as the stretch of Shizuo’s touch sliding slick into him, and then Shizuo shifts his wrist and Izaya jerks involuntarily, his body quivering through a rush of sensation that skids his breathing and flushes his cock harder.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he says, blurting it more than making a deliberate decision to speak. “Shizuo--” but Shizuo’s moving again, anticipating Izaya’s words without waiting for certain confirmation. The motion of his hand is rough, too fast and too hard, but the force behind the thrust is enough, the weight of his touch sufficient to spike another surge of heat through Izaya’s body. “ _Fuck_.”

“Izaya,” Shizuo says, his voice shaking and his touch steady. He draws his hand back, sliding his finger almost all the way out of Izaya’s body, and if Izaya were someone else he might tell Shizuo to wait, might tell him he needs another minute to adjust. But the idea of another finger just makes him shudder, purrs the heat of near-panic down his spine, and then Shizuo’s pushing against him and the force is irresistible, and Izaya’s gasping for air, and he’s stretching open around two of Shizuo’s fingers instead of one. Shizuo lets his breath go, the sound of his exhale quivering in the air, and he’s still pushing in harder, still with that clumsy speed that should be too much and isn’t, not underlined with the implied desperation that turns all Izaya’s skin to fire against the air. Shizuo huffs through the effort of an audible breath, gasping air like he can’t remember how, and Izaya echoes him, straining for oxygen as his whole body tenses in a long shudder of reaction around the slick weight of Shizuo’s fingers.

“You’re so hot,” Shizuo breathes, his tone implying shock and his voice breaking on emotion, and Izaya blinks his vision to focus and drags his sight into clarity on Shizuo’s features. Shizuo’s staring at his face, his eyes wide and gone impossibly black as he stares; his mouth is soft, his lips parted, his hair clinging to a sheen of sweat just along the top line of his forehead. His eyebrows are still drawn together on the tension in his forehead that makes him look like he’s going to cry, his mouth open on some unvoiced groan; his shoulders are tense and straining with the effort of holding himself up, the stroke of his hand into Izaya harsh and arrhythmic with the odd angle of his movement. Izaya can feel the strain pushing him open, can feel the uncomfortable stretch with every forward drive of Shizuo’s fingers, and he wants it, craves it, he’s burning for more of that friction to slide up into him and mark him from the inside out.

Izaya swallows. It’s hard to find moisture in his mouth, harder to close his lips on the whimper of heat that is straining from his throat with every breath, but he does both, managing to only sound a little bit breathless when he says “Shizuo,” with the vowels slurring into flame on his tongue. “I can take it.”

“I’ll hurt you,” Shizuo says, but it’s so fast as to be reflexive, a recitation more than a response. “You’re so tight, I can’t--”

“You can,” Izaya says, and he angles one leg up and around Shizuo’s hip, letting the force of his motion urge the other in closer. Shizuo’s weight rocks forward, his fingers slide deeper, and for a moment they’re both gasping, Izaya with the friction and Shizuo with the knocked-open sound of desire in the back of his throat. His head tips down, his hair falls in front of his face, and for a moment all Izaya can see of him is the dip of his shoulders and the part of his lips as he breathes.

“You can,” Izaya repeats, and lets Shizuo’s shirt go to catch at the front of his slacks instead, to press his fingers hard against the fastenings. “Come on, Shizuo, don’t you want me?”

“Fuck,” Shizuo breathes. His hand tenses; Izaya can feel the fingers inside him flex for a moment, like Shizuo is trying to brace himself in place against Izaya’s body. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I can take it,” Izaya says. “Trust me, Shizuo.”

Shizuo huffs an exhale. “That’s not reassuring,” he says, but he’s rocking his weight back and drawing his fingers free, and Izaya’s whole body is flashing to instant, radiant heat just with the suggestion of what that movement means. “I always get into trouble when I listen to you.” His fingers are slick with lube and hot from the other’s body when they bump Izaya’s hold at Shizuo’s slacks; Izaya hisses an inhale and draws his hand away to grab at Shizuo’s hip instead as the other unfastens the front of his slacks one-handed. “I should have learned my lesson years ago.”

“Good thing you’re too stupid for that,” Izaya tells him, and Shizuo huffs a laugh as he gets his pants undone. Izaya intends to keep his hand where it is, braced against the tension just along Shizuo’s waist, but Shizuo’s pushing at his clothes and the temptation is too great to resist, and his fingers drag sideways to follow the line of Shizuo’s hip as the shift of fabric bares it. There’s hot skin under his hand, the flushed weight of Shizuo’s cock against his palm, and Izaya’s curling his fingers around the breadth of it without thinking, drawing up in a deliberate drag of friction as his hips rock up as if to match the movement. Shizuo groans, his head dropping farther forward until his forehead bumps Izaya’s collarbone, and then his fingers are tangling with Izaya’s, his palm dragging slick in the wake of Izaya’s touch.

“‘Good,’” Shizuo repeats, sounding like he’s fighting for coherency until the word is a groan as much as a statement. “For which one of us?”

“Both of us,” Izaya insists. He’s aching all through his body from the tension collecting along his spine and the want hot along the length of his cock; his hands are still shaking, worse now than they were, but Shizuo is slick to the touch and Izaya can’t remember how to fill his lungs with air with the weight of Shizuo’s shoulders pressing over him like a promise. “We’re better together, Shizuo.”

“You are such a liar,” Shizuo says, but it comes out as almost a laugh around the rough edge in his throat, and he’s shifting his weight down, bracing his fingers at the base of his cock as he tips his chin down to watch what he’s doing. Izaya drags his fingers up over the head one more, catches slick friction at his fingertips and drags a moan up Shizuo’s throat; and then he lets Shizuo go, and reaches up to tangle his fingers into yellow hair instead. When he pulls he can arch his hips, can tilt up to meet Shizuo’s careful angle, and then Shizuo’s against him and Izaya’s breathing stalls, catching on the edges of adrenaline as all the heat in him pauses for a breath of inevitability.

“Izaya,” Shizuo says, and lifts his head to stare at Izaya’s face. His eyes are wide and shadowed to impossible darkness; Izaya’s never seen his expression so soft, has never seen his mouth so gentle.

Izaya takes a breath. His heart is pounding so loud against his ribcage he’s sure Shizuo can see the motion of it through his shirt. “Do it, Shizuo,” he says, and pulls Shizuo in towards him, offering as much encouragement as the hand at Shizuo’s shoulder and the leg around his hip can give. Shizuo lets a breath go, and lets his weight tip forward, and then he’s pressing into Izaya and all Izaya’s breath leaves his lungs at once. Shizuo’s bigger than his fingers were, wider and harder and hotter, and Izaya’s gasping but Shizuo’s making some broken-off noise in the back of his throat and pushing forward before Izaya can catch his breath, thrusting farther inside the other while Izaya’s spine arches and his fingers tighten at the flexing effort in Shizuo’s shoulder. “ _Fuck_ ,” he gasps, but it sounds like a groan, and “ _Shizuo_ ” and Shizuo’s whimpering, his head is weighting heavy at Izaya’s shoulder as his hips buck forward to push farther into the other’s body. Izaya can hear the sound of Shizuo’s inhales, the ragged edges of them are hot enough to feel through the thin of his shirt, but he can’t pay attention to them; he’s too busy shuddering against the floor, his mouth coming open on an unvoiced exhale as the heat of Shizuo’s cock stretches him open in time with the force of the other’s thrust. Izaya’s trembling with the strain, his body tensing into reflexive protest at the pressure inside him, but his hold at Shizuo’s hair is going tighter, the angle of his leg around Shizuo’s hip is tensing to pull the other closer, to urge him deeper as Shizuo falls forward onto the support of his elbow and catches his hand in Izaya’s hair. His fingers make a fist on the strands, dragging so sharply it’s almost painful, but he’s drawing his hips back too, and all Izaya has time for is a choked-off gasp of air before Shizuo thrusts forward again and drives all the air from his lungs along with whatever coherency he might have briefly mustered. Izaya’s legs ache, the spread-open angle of them more than he is accustomed to, but that’s just part of it too, it just adds to the whole-body tremor of too-much that is spiking heat up the curve of his spine. Shizuo draws back again, Izaya shudders with the friction; and Shizuo chokes against his shoulder, groaning “ _Izaya_ ” as his hips jolt forward with involuntary speed. His shoulder flex, Izaya’s breath hitches, and then Shizuo’s gasping against his shirt, his hand closing hard at Izaya’s hip as he comes. Izaya can feel the half-formed motion of Shizuo rocking into him through the pulses of pleasure, can hear the panting heat under Shizuo’s breathing against his shoulder; and then Shizuo goes still, his shoulders shaking with the effort of holding himself up, and Izaya licks his lips and reaches for words.

“My god,” he manages, the raw drag of effort in his throat only partially undoing the drawl on the words. “You really _are_ a virgin, aren’t you?”

“Oh my god,” Shizuo says into his shoulder. “Shut _up_.”

“I thought it would be a challenge to take you,” Izaya says, feeling the strain of laughter starting in his chest as Shizuo pushes up over his hands and regains his balance. “If I had known you would only take a few seconds I wouldn’t have been nearly so worried.”

“You are such a _dick_ ,” Shizuo tells him as he pulls back and away. Izaya has to close his mouth on the whimper that threatens at the slick drag of Shizuo’s cock sliding out of him; it leaves him achy and sore, his body protesting the loss as much as it cried out against the strain originally. “You came just from me pushing you against the couch last time.”

“You don’t have anything to complain about if I come first,” Izaya informs him. “ _You’re_ not being left unsatisfied.”

“Who said you were going to be unsatisfied?” Shizuo wants to know. He’s rocking back over his knees, his hair tangled around his face from the drag of Izaya’s hands through it; his cheeks are flushed on embarrassment, but his mouth is set into a line of determination. “I’m still going to get you off, don’t be ridiculous.”

“It’s not the same,” Izaya whines as Shizuo’s fingers tighten against his hip. “I want to come around your _cock_ , Shizuo.”

“Fuck,” Shizuo says, his cheeks flushing darker as he swallows. “You can’t just _say_ things like that.”

Izaya flashes his teeth in a grin. “Can’t I?”

“No,” Shizuo says, and he reaches out to close his fingers around Izaya’s length, his grip tight enough that Izaya’s spine arches to lift him off the floor by inches. “Shut up, Izaya.”

“ _Ah_ ,” Izaya gasps. “You...no need to be rough, Shizu-chan.”

“Brat,” Shizuo growls, and then his hand is lifting from Izaya’s hip, his fingers are easing from the bruise-weight of his grip. Izaya opens his mouth to protest; and Shizuo’s fingers slide into him, two at once to push him open around their width. Izaya’s eyes go wide, his head goes back, and Shizuo’s breathing hard over him, leaning in closer as his fingers slide deeper. “Don’t _call_ me that.”

“Apologies,” Izaya taunts, except it comes out sincere, and when he lets his hold on Shizuo’s hair go to hold to his shoulder instead it’s to brace himself in place instead of to offer protest. “I always forget.”

“You don’t,” Shizuo tells him, but the words sound like a purr, his fingers are pressing Izaya open while his grip drags friction over flushed skin, and all Izaya can hear is the resonance of the words on the back of Shizuo’s tongue. “You know my name.”

“Shizuo,” Izaya says, and Shizuo groans satisfaction and drives his fingers in so hard Izaya’s vision flares to white. “Give me another.”

“What?” Shizuo looks down, his movements stalling for a moment. “I’m going to hurt you” but he’s drawing his fingers back even as he resumes the smooth rhythm of friction. His fingers slip, his touch catching awkwardly against Izaya’s entrance as he tries to change his angle; and then he’s pushing back in with three fingers together, and Izaya’s hold tightens and strains against Shizuo’s shoulder, the support the only stable point he has as his body arches up against the strain of Shizuo pushing into him.

“God,” Shizuo chokes out, “ _Izaya_ ,” and Izaya gasps an inhale and jerks into orgasm, his entire body tensing helplessly around Shizuo’s touch inside him. His cock is spilling heat over his stomach, Shizuo is still stroking up over him, but Izaya can’t gain the traction to do anything but choke through the jolts of sensation washing over him as Shizuo moves. He makes it through the first overwhelming surge of heat, and then through the toe-curling pleasure, until finally the friction becomes too much and the heat of Shizuo’s touch is more than he can bear. He has to let Shizuo’s shoulder go, has to reach down to fumble a hold against the other’s wrist to stop the motion, but then Shizuo goes obediently still over him, the tangle of his hair casting a tracery of shadow over Izaya’s face.

“God,” Izaya says, hearing the raw edges on his voice as clearly as he can feel the strain on his vocal chords. He shifts his knee by a half-inch and Shizuo draws his fingers back and out of him, leaving an achy emptiness in their wake. “I hurt.”

“I told you,” Shizuo says, his voice catching onto the high range of concern as he lets his hold on Izaya’s cock go. “I tried to warn you.”

“I didn’t say I _minded_ ,” Izaya says. He angles his knee in to ease the strain along the inside of his thighs; Shizuo shifts his weight to let Izaya’s knee fit between his before he leans forward over the other again. The shadows in his eyes are easing, the black making way for the usual soft brown of his irises; there’s a crease in his forehead, worry making itself clear in the line between his eyebrows as much as the frown at his lips. Izaya reaches a hand up, pushes Shizuo’s hair back off his forehead and fits his thumb to the crease, pushing until some of the strain in the other’s expression eases. “I _liked_ it. I like you.”

Shizuo blinks. His eyes go brighter with the motion of his eyelashes, his gaze melting into softness that catches in Izaya’s throat like it’s trying to choke him, until it’s impossible to speak for a moment for the sudden emotion sticking at the back of his tongue.

“I’m glad,” Shizuo says, his hand shifting sideways so he can slide his fingers into Izaya’s hair. When he ducks forward his nose bumps against Izaya’s cheek. “I like you too.”

Izaya’s achy all over, his hip bruised and his legs shaky and his skin sticky with the aftermath of sex. It doesn’t make any sense that a few words should shudder through him like electricity, should burn across his cheeks like a sudden sunburn settling across his face. But he can feel his breathing stutter, can feel his face flame, and then Shizuo laughs low against the corner of his mouth and Izaya turns in to kiss him before he can gain any more traction on his amusement.

Izaya can feel Shizuo’s smile against his lips.


	58. Satisfied

They make it to the bed eventually. Shizuo insists on picking up the tangle of clothes they’ve made in the entryway, and then on rinsing and bandaging the clotted-over cut on Izaya’s hand, but he’s still wrapping gauze around the other’s knuckles when Izaya gets his fingers back into blond hair and starts kissing against the line of Shizuo’s jaw, and if they don’t actually have sex on the bathroom floor it’s only because it’s so much easier for Izaya to curl his fingers around the heat of Shizuo’s cock and jerk him off while Shizuo gasps breathless heat against his shoulder. By the time Shizuo comes over the curl of his fingers Izaya’s hard again, and it turns out Shizuo’s far more receptive to the suggestion of a blowjob than Izaya expected him to be. Izaya has no idea if Shizuo’s technique has any real talent behind it at all, but it’s enough to leave him trembling with aftershocks against the floor the entire time that Shizuo is occupied in washing the blood out of his hair and the salt off his skin. He’s still unsteady on his feet by the time they trade, and then it takes him so long to go through the motions of washing himself clean that Shizuo is drowsing on the couch in sweatpants and a t-shirt by the time he emerges. It’s hard to shake him awake but easy to tug him into the bedroom instead, and no sooner does Izaya get them under the blankets than Shizuo is reaching for his waist and tugging him back against the support of the other’s chest with a hold no less unbreakable for how deliberately gentle it is. Izaya goes flushed with the weight of Shizuo’s hold and pushes himself backwards with a little more force than is necessary; but Shizuo just curls in closer against him, and presses his face between Izaya’s shoulderblades, and goes limp with the slack heaviness of sleep before Izaya can rouse him to more. Izaya wants to be frustrated but he’s warmer under Shizuo’s arm than he’s ever been under just blankets, and once he’s lying down he can feel the ache of exhaustion all through his body, and when he shuts his eyes he slides into dreamless sleep in a fraction of the time it usually takes him to attain unconsciousness.

Izaya wakes up sore. His whole body hurts, from the knot at the small of his back to the throb across his bandaged knuckles to the deep ache inside him, like a remembered echo of the stretch of Shizuo pushing into him. The thought makes his cock flush harder, draws him into full consciousness in time with the heat that unwinds into his veins; when he opens his eyes he can see daylight glowing at the curtains drawn over the windows, the illumination gold with midmorning light instead of the crisp blue edge of dawn. Shizuo’s still behind him, still has his arm angled up to pin Izaya back against his chest; when Izaya shifts Shizuo whimpers a muffled noise too incoherent to be conscious and tightens his hold like Izaya’s a pillow he’s pulling back against him. Izaya can’t help the smile that tugs at his mouth, can’t restrain the softness he can feel catching behind his eyes when he blinks; when he twists to look over his shoulder he can only see the angle of Shizuo’s neck and the line of the other’s arm where it’s fitting around the rhythm of his breathing.

“Shizuo,” Izaya says aloud, the word coming out softer than he intended against the slow pace of Shizuo’s breathing against his shoulders. Shizuo doesn’t so much as frown in his sleep. “Shizuo,” a little louder, this time, but there’s still no response from the form pressed against Izaya’s shoulders. “Shizu-chan.” That gets a mumble but it’s low, more a groan than a real response, and when Shizuo shifts it’s only to press in closer against Izaya’s back. Shizuo’s hot through the thin layer of his t-shirt, his body radiant as if he’s serving as a second sun, and he’s half-hard too, the resistance enough that Izaya can feel it through the layer of Shizuo’s sweatpants and his own boxers. Izaya lets a breath go, the shape of a groan silent for lack of voicing, and when he moves it’s to rock backwards instead of trying to pull himself forward and free of Shizuo’s hold on him. He presses himself against Shizuo’s hips, rocks his weight back to grind against the other’s body, and he can feel Shizuo flush harder, his cock responding to the extra friction even if he’s still caught in the half-asleep stage of waking up. Izaya’s breathing catches, his throat tensing on heat, but he closes his mouth on the sound that threatens, and closes his fingers against the brace of the sheets under them, and pushes himself backwards again, sliding his weight through an arc of motion that is nearly graceful in spite of the weight of the blankets over them and the burden of Shizuo’s arm across his chest. Shizuo sighs against Izaya’s shoulders, his hips rocking forward of their own accord, and when Izaya shifts again Shizuo’s hold on him tightens, holding him still against the force as Shizuo pushes forward to grind against him again. Izaya does moan, then, the sound urged out of his chest by the heat of Shizuo’s cock pressing against him, and when he says “ _Shizuo_ ” it’s loud enough that Shizuo finally stirs and groans into his shirt.

“Mmgh,” he offers first, an unintelligible sound made more of sleep than consciousness; then, as his arm tightens for a moment and then eases: “Izaya?”

“I hope so,” Izaya manages. “Unless you wandered off to someone else’s bed while I was asleep.”

Shizuo groans. “No,” he offers, his voice still rough with sleep he hasn’t yet shaken off. His hold tightens, his head presses hard between Izaya’s shoulders. “You’re warm.”

“Hot, actually,” Izaya corrects, and then, pushing himself back again to punctuate: “Which is completely your fault.”

Shizuo’s breathing catches against Izaya’s shirt, his inhale sticking on the outline of heat; when he shifts it’s to work his other hand free and close his hold at Izaya’s hip to hold him still against the bed. For a moment Izaya thinks Shizuo’s going to push him off, is going to insist on a shower or breakfast or some equally mundane start to the day; but then Shizuo’s hips come forward, his cock pushes hard against Izaya’s body, and Izaya arches and groans at the pressure as Shizuo’s exhale gusts against his spine.

“Fuck.” Shizuo’s arm shifts, the casual weight over Izaya’s chest taking on the form of intention; fingers catch at the hem of the other’s shirt, Shizuo’s palm flattens against Izaya’s stomach, and then he’s pushing up across the line of the other’s chest, his skin so warm Izaya can feel it like a burn across his ribcage. “I’m barely awake.”

“You’re awake enough,” Izaya says, and Shizuo pushes against him so hard he tips them forward over the bed, Izaya tilting over to be pinned between the drag of Shizuo’s hand across his chest and the weight of Shizuo’s body flush with his spine. Shizuo rocks his hips up and forward, gaining intention for the reflexive heat of his movement, and Izaya whimpers a brief moment of breathlessness against the sheets under him as he tries to arch himself backwards to meet the other. “Is this not how you want to wake up in the morning?”

“No,” Shizuo says, his mouth so close to Izaya’s neck his speech ruffles the other’s hair. “This is fine.” He grinds forward again; the weight of his movement is enough to push Izaya down against the bed, to pin the ache of his cock against the sheets and threaten the friction of satisfaction. Izaya has to turn his face down to the pillows to stifle the whine in his throat, and even that doesn’t do anything for the reflexive jerk of his hips under Shizuo’s. Shizuo leans sideways, balancing his weight against his elbow so he can drag at Izaya’s hip to pull the other up and back, and then he moves again, a long slide of friction as fluid as it is instinctive. Izaya shudders, Shizuo groans, and there’s a moment of heat just below his ear as Shizuo kisses against his hair before murmuring, “Do you have lube here too?” in what is probably intended as a whisper and just feels like a growl running electricity all down Izaya’s spine.

Izaya turns his head and gasps a lungful of air free of the too-warm layer of the blankets against his face. “There,” he says, and lets his hold on the sheets go to stretch for the table alongside the bed. He can make it if he strains for the surface, but Shizuo moves behind him, and slides his hand away before Izaya can protest, and then he’s catching the bottle at the far corner of the table and leaning back in to tip forward against the support of Izaya’s shoulders under him.

“Is this okay?” he asks into the back of Izaya’s neck. Izaya can feel the heat of Shizuo’s breathing in his hair, can feel the weight of Shizuo’s lips pressing at the top of his spine; it’s distracting enough to make him shudder, enough to win a tremor through his thoughts even more effectively than the motion of Shizuo working the bottle open with more haste than skill. Shizuo’s hot against his back, the press of his body pinning Izaya down until it’s hard even to take a breath, hard to find the space to fill his lungs with air and impossible to push up against. Izaya can hear his own breathing coming faster against the sheets, can feel his cock aching against his hips at the weight holding him down.

“Yes,” Izaya says, hearing his voice quiver and break on the unfamiliar weight of sincerity. “What do you think I woke you up for?” Shizuo lets the bottle fall into the space between two pillows and reaches down to the elastic edge of Izaya’s boxers; Izaya shudders at the frictionless cool of slick fingers against him, trembling against the mattress as Shizuo’s touch dips under his clothes and slides along his skin. “You owe me, after yesterday.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo says against the back of his neck. His touch is going warmer as he moves, the cool of the liquid heating to match the early-morning radiance of his skin; by the time his fingertips brush Izaya’s entrance Izaya’s shudder is more from the heat than from a chill. “That was the first time, give me a break.”

“I will,” Izaya says, letting his knees slide wider against the sheets so he can rock himself up against Shizuo over him. His legs protest the effort, his muscles straining against unfamiliar angles, but the ache just purrs heat down his spine. “Prove me wrong, Shizuo.”

“Fine,” Shizuo says, and shifts his hand to slide a finger inside Izaya’s body. There’s a burst of friction, a flare of pain as raw nerve endings protest the contact, but Izaya’s groaning as fast as his body is tensing, his cock twitching hot against the sheets as Shizuo pushes into him.

Shizuo hesitates. “Are you okay?” he asks, his voice going soft on the concern that Izaya can feel tensing in the weight against his shoulders, like Shizuo is thinking of pulling up and away.

Izaya’s skin flickers electric with panic, his body clenches around Shizuo’s touch, and when he opens his mouth to say “ _Yes_ ” it comes out so strained on adrenaline that it undoes nearly all the reassurance the word might offer. He shuts his eyes, turns his head down against the sheets, takes a breath; when he speaks again it’s easier, more carefully modulated into calm. “Yes,” as he makes himself relax, as he lets the fist he’s made on the sheets ease. “Keep going, Shizuo.”

Shizuo’s still hesitant -- Izaya can feel it in the tension in his body -- but what he says is, “Tell me if it’s too much,” and what he does is push in farther. There’s another rush of heat, friction and the burn of almost-pain flickering into Izaya’s body; and something lower, hotter, the heavy weight of desire uncoiling itself low in his stomach like it’s only just stirring to consciousness. When Izaya opens his mouth it’s to groan against the sheets, and when he reaches up it’s to fist at the pillow and rock himself back, and Shizuo gasps into his hair and grabs at his hip to steady him.

“Shit,” he breathes, and draws his hand back to push in again. His movements are rougher than they were yesterday, forceful with a lack of experience and rushed on anticipation, but Izaya doesn’t complain; it feels good to have Shizuo’s touch pushing him open with awkward haste, like the other can’t wait enough to be patient and careful with him. Izaya’s cock is aching against the front of his boxers; he works a hand down against his stomach, pushes the elastic of the waistband down and off his hips so he can curl his fingers in around the flushed-sensitive head and tighten his hold into the aching satisfaction of pressure. Shizuo groans over him, his hips bucking forward against Izaya’s thigh while the motion of his hand speeds, and Izaya takes a breath and turns his head and manages, “Another,” with enough heat on his tongue to pass for the command he intends it to be.

Shizuo doesn’t ask if he’s sure. He doesn’t say anything at all, except to huff heat at the back of Izaya’s neck and draw his hand back to add a second finger. Izaya relaxes into the strain right away this time, just gasping himself into a breathy moan as Shizuo’s touch stretches him open, and Shizuo groans “ _Izaya_ ” before pressing his mouth so close against Izaya’s neck that any additional sound is lost to a hum against the other’s shoulder. He finds something of a rhythm with two fingers, his hand falling into pace with the reflexive forward tilt of his hips, and Izaya shuts his eyes and lets the rush of sensation wash over him, lets the stroke of his fingers over himself follow the slow-heavy pace Shizuo is setting against him. The distraction undoes his focus and leaves his self-awareness in disarray, until by the time Shizuo takes a deliberate inhale and slides his fingers back Izaya is startled by the change in the rhythm. He opens his eyes, blinking hard at the wall, and then Shizuo says, “Izaya, I’m going to--” and Izaya remembers all at once what they’re doing.

“Yes,” he says, and lets his hold on himself go as Shizuo pulls away for a moment to push up onto his knees and let the blankets slide off at them at once. Izaya disentangles his legs, bringing his knees up towards his chest so he can push his boxers off, and when he looks up Shizuo is stripping his t-shirt up over his head, emerging from the collar with his hair sleep-rumpled and his eyes dark as he looks down at Izaya.

“Take your shirt off too,” Shizuo suggests. He’s reaching for his pajama pants, hooking his thumbs into the waistband to push them off his hips, but Izaya doesn’t linger to watch; he pushes up off the sheets instead, sitting up just long enough to tug his shirt up and off as suggested. The air in the room is cool against his bare skin, chill enough to raise goosebumps against the heat of his arms; but Shizuo’s reaching out for his hair, catching his fingers against the back of Izaya’s neck to hold him steady, and when his mouth lands at Izaya’s Izaya forgets all about the cool of the air. Shizuo’s struggling free of his pants, falling onto his hip against the bed as he kicks his feet loose and leaves the clothing tangled with the blankets at the bottom of the bed, and Izaya’s reaching out without thinking about it at all, turning in to fit his fingers to the dip at Shizuo’s hip and the angle of his shoulder and tipping sideways to drop them both across the bed. Shizuo makes a low noise against Izaya’s mouth, something hot and purring with satisfaction, and Izaya’s aching for the stretch of heat inside him but for a minute all can he think is to arch forward, to press his hips and the flush of his cock hard against Shizuo for a moment of instinctive friction. Shizuo groans in the back of his throat, his hand coming out to grab at Izaya’s hip and pull him in closer, and for just a minute they’re like that, pinned together over the bed while Izaya’s fingers tangle into Shizuo’s hair and Shizuo licks in past the part of Izaya’s lips. Izaya whimpers something incoherent, Shizuo groans into his mouth, and then Shizuo’s hand at Izaya’s hip pushes instead, urging him back and away before Izaya has yet untangled his fingers from the other’s hair.

“Here,” Shizuo says, as if that’s an explanation in itself, as if the shadow of his lashes over his eyes isn’t more than undoing the suggestion of his hold urging Izaya back over the bed. “Turn over.”

“Why?” Izaya wants to know, but he’s moving anyway, guided more by Shizuo’s hands than by his own volition. Shizuo tips him back across the sheets, the motion knocking Izaya’s hold on the other’s hair loose; but then, before Izaya can voice a protest, Shizuo’s pushing him farther still, all the way over onto his other side before his hold tightens to draw Izaya back over the sheets. Izaya gasps not-quite protest, Shizuo’s hips press in against his, and Izaya reaches back instead of forwards, closing his fingers against Shizuo’s hip to hold himself still while he rocks back against the support of the other’s body.

“Fuck,” Shizuo groans, and his hand is closing on himself, the slick slide of his fingers interposing between his cock and the friction of Izaya’s skin. Izaya can feel him take one stroke, another, and then go still, pushing up onto an elbow as he leans in against Izaya’s shoulders. “Like this.” His knee pushes forward, sliding between the press of Izaya’s thighs, and Izaya lets his leg angle up over Shizuo’s, lets Shizuo tip him forward onto his stomach against the bed for a moment. There’s a press against his entrance, the slick heat of Shizuo’s cock urging him open; and then friction, pressure, and Shizuo groaning into Izaya’s hair as Izaya arches and shudders at the weight of Shizuo sliding into him. The stretch radiates all up his spine, pressure so great it’s too much to parse as pain or pleasure either one; and Shizuo’s mouth is against his shoulder, Shizuo’s arm is fitting under his waist, and Izaya’s arching back without thinking about it, letting Shizuo pull him onto his side and back against the other’s chest as he rocks up into him.

“God,” Shizuo says against Izaya’s shoulder, but there’s no meaning to the word, just the knocked-open edge of heat in his voice. Izaya can’t catch his breath, can’t even turn his head to press his mouth to Shizuo’s hair, but he tightens his fingers at the other’s hip, digs in hard in the encouragement he can’t find words for from the strain in his chest. Shizuo’s arm curls around his waist, his fingers spreading wide to brace Izaya in place, and when he moves Izaya can feel himself rock against the support of Shizuo’s arm, caught to stillness by the force of the other’s hold. “ _Izaya_.”

“Oh,” Izaya gasps, and then, as Shizuo’s free hand skims his hip and drops down to the heat of his cock: “ _Fuck_ ,” his foot skidding for traction against the sheets as he tries to buck up into the other’s hold. Shizuo groans, Izaya whimpers, and then Shizuo’s closing his fingers into a grip against Izaya’s length and jerking up over him without any warning at all. Izaya shudders, his whole body trembling in Shizuo’s hold, and Shizuo gasps into his shoulder and moves again, drawing back to thrust farther up into him as his hold tightens on the other’s cock.

“Fuck,” Izaya says again, and he’s bruising Shizuo’s hip, he must be, he can feel his nails catching and tearing on skin, but Shizuo’s not flinching away and isn’t easing the friction of his movement, his hips or his hand either one. Izaya angles his free arm up over his head, reaching for something to hold to; his fingers land in Shizuo’s hair, his hand curls into a fist against the strands, and Shizuo makes a low sound into his shoulder and thrusts harder up into him. Izaya can feel the heat under all his skin, can feel his spine arching to push him away or urge him closer, he’s not sure and it doesn’t matter, not with the unbreakable support of Shizuo’s arm holding him in place. Shizuo’s hold on him is steady, his palm slick with what’s left of the lube and his fingers tight against Izaya’s length, and Izaya can feel his attention jolting to electricity with each drag of Shizuo’s hand, can hear his breathing stalling into a groan with each motion of Shizuo’s hips.

“Izaya,” Shizuo says against his shoulder, and his breath is warm, his mouth so close Izaya can feel the catch of teeth against his shoulder. “You. _God_ , you smell so _good_.”

“Shizuo,” Izaya starts, and he means to follow that up with some kind of taunt, with the shape of a laugh on the back of his tongue, but Shizuo’s hand slides over him and he shudders into heat instead, the vowels of the other’s name skidding into a wail at the back of his throat as his head tips back against Shizuo’s shoulder. “ _Shizuo_.”

“I’m here,” Shizuo says, his mouth hot against Izaya’s skin. His hand is moving faster, his motions going jerkier; Izaya thinks the rhythm of his hips might be increasing, too, but it’s hard to tell, hard to keep track of the details when everything in him is going tense and straining. “Izaya, I’m here.”

“I’m,” Izaya says, and his toes are curling, his legs are tensing, his arms are straining at Shizuo’s hair and his grip on the other’s hip like he’s trying to pull him closer. “I.” He curves back against Shizuo’s chest, the arch of his spine offering useless resistance to the weight of Shizuo’s hold on him; and then Shizuo’s fingers drag over him, and Izaya chokes “ _Shizuo_ ” and comes, his body shuddering into relief as his cock spills hot across Shizuo’s fingers. Shizuo groans into his shoulder, the sound so low Izaya can feel it all the way down his spine, but even that’s distant compared to the trembling rush of sensation spilling from Shizuo’s hold on his length and the steady rhythm of Shizuo’s cock still pushing up and into him. Izaya’s gasping for air, he can’t catch his breath for the involuntary sounds spilling past his lips, and Shizuo’s still stroking over him but it’s going jerky, the rhythm of the action going shaky as his hips move faster. His head is pressed against Izaya’s shoulder, his breathing coming in a rush over Izaya’s skin, and then Izaya shudders into stillness and Shizuo lets him go, bracing his sticky hand against Izaya’s hip instead to hold him steady. Izaya can feel the rhythm of Shizuo moving inside him, the ache of the pressure gone soft with the satisfaction of his own orgasm but still purring heat into his veins, and then Shizuo whimpers open-mouthed into his shoulder and thrusts hard into Izaya as he starts to come. His fingers tense for a moment, the pressure of his hold matching the first tremor of heat that runs through him; and then his grip eases, his breathing gusts into a sigh of relief, and Izaya shuts his eyes and breathes through the trembling aftershocks of pleasure and into the languid weight of satisfaction.

“That was acceptable, I suppose,” he says, after he’s collected his voice back into a modicum of normalcy and while Shizuo is still pressing close against his shoulder. “You’re a fast learner, Shizu-chan.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo says without lifting his head and with the purring suggestion of laughter in his throat. “I could feel how hard you came, don’t try to be coy.”

“Mm,” Izaya hums. Shizuo shifts behind him, sliding himself free of Izaya’s body without loosening the hold he has around the other’s chest; Izaya hisses at the friction, feels his body aching protest at the loss, but he doesn’t pull away. “I’m still sore.”

“Yeah.” Shizuo lifts his head from Izaya’s shoulder; the hand against the other’s hip loosens, trailing down along his hip by a span of inches. “Shit.”

“What is it?” Izaya opens his eyes and tips his head down to see what Shizuo is looking at. There’s a faint tracery of damp against his skin, the marks from Shizuo’s sticky hold across his hip; and dark underneath it, the shadow of past-tense fingerprints starting to show under the pale skin.

“I hurt you,” Shizuo says, his voice catching in the back of his throat as his fingers ghost across the rising color. “God, I’m so sorry.”

“Stop it,” Izaya says, a little more harshly than he intends, but at least Shizuo’s lifting his head to look at him instead of staring at the weight of yesterday’s fingerprints on Izaya’s hip. “Why are you apologizing? We had sex on the _floor_. Of course we were going to get bruised.”

Shizuo frowns. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Izaya rolls his eyes. “I know,” he says. “You didn’t. I _liked_ it. It’s a bruise, Shizuo, not the apocalypse.” He reaches an arm up to angle around Shizuo’s shoulders and slides his fingers up into blond hair. “Next time you can carry me into the comfort of the bedroom before you fuck me senseless.”

Shizuo’s mouth quirks on a laugh he only barely bites back. “Next next time, you mean?”

“Sure.” Izaya tightens his hand into a fist and tugs hard enough to get a flinch of reaction from Shizuo. “Stop worrying, Shizu-chan.”

Shizuo does laugh at that, a cough of amusement before he finds the weight of a frown for his mouth. “Don’t call me that.”

Izaya smirks at him. “Make me stop.” Shizuo growls, and Izaya laughs, and Shizuo’s frown gives way to a smile before he reaches out to curl in over Izaya’s shoulders and press his mouth to the other’s. Izaya lets his hold on Shizuo’s hair go soft, and shuts his eyes, and when he opens his mouth there’s nothing but purring satisfaction warm against his tongue.


	59. Steady

“They said I could start on Tuesday.” Kadota shrugs one-shouldered, making the entire question of his employment seem like an unimportant triviality to his existence as he reaches out for a second serving of food. “It sounds like it’ll be fun.”

“I still don’t understand how they hired you,” Izaya drawls from the other side of the table. “Do you even know how to do tilework, Dotachin?”

“Don’t call me that,” Kadota says evenly and without looking up from the effort he’s putting into fishing a mushroom free of the simmering broth in front of him. “They said they’d teach me. How hard can it be?”

 _I think it’s amazing_ , Celty offers to the table at large, holding her cell phone up for general inspection.

“It is,” Shinra agrees. “I bet you learn all kinds of exciting things on these jobs!”

“Sure,” Kadota replies, as calm as ever. He’s managed to retrieve the desired mushroom; now he appears to be in pursuit of one of the thin-cut strips of beef occasionally rising to the surface of the liquid. “It’s a nice way to stay busy.”

“Yeah,” Shizuo says from his place next to Izaya. “Honest work. Sounds like fun.”

“Instead of working for the yakuza as an underage bartender?” Izaya wants to know. He picks up his own chopsticks, leaning sideways to snag a bite of tofu from Shizuo’s bowl instead of fighting with Kadota over the best angle on the hotpot itself.

“Hey,” Shizuo says without any heat at all and without lifting his hand to stop Izaya stealing the bite from his serving. “That was your fault in the first place.”

“You always blame everything on me,” Izaya sighs, adopting the most regretful tone he can manage while he glances sideways through his lashes to see the way Shizuo’s focus is lingering against him. “Aren’t you old enough to be taking responsibility for your own life, Shizu-chan?”

“It _is_ usually your fault, you know,” Shinra puts in from the end of the table. Celty types against her phone keyboard for a moment before lifting it towards the pair of them; Izaya doesn’t bother looking at the agreement he knows will be on the screen.

“Awful,” he says. “You’re all terrible, cruel people. The only friend of you worth having is Dotachin.”

“Don’t call me that,” Kadota tells him with deliberate focus on the words while Izaya grins at him. “I don’t disagree.”

“ _Horrible_ ,” Izaya informs them all at large, and reaches over towards Shizuo’s bowl again. “See if I ever employ any of you again.”

“Shizuo’s the only one you’ve ever directly employed,” Shinra points out, his chin braced against his hand and his smile bright beneath the shine of his glasses.

“Yeah, and you _still_ haven’t paid me,” Shizuo growls. “Stop eating all my food.”

“You’re not eating it,” Izaya tells him, and reaches out for another bite of tofu.

Shizuo frowns. “You’re just eating around all the vegetables.”

“Thus is the beauty of hotpot,” Izaya informs him. “You can eat all the carrots and mushrooms you want and I can eat all the good parts.”

“Carrots _are_ good,” Shizuo protests as Celty offers her phone to point out that _vegetables are good for you, Izaya_.

“Thanks, mom,” Izaya drawls, and grins at the flush of shadow that casts Celty’s visor into darkness for a moment. Celty ducks over her phone, Shinra chirps a concerned “Celty!” from the other end of the table, and Izaya looks back at Shizuo next to him. Shizuo’s watching him instead of reading the text responses Celty is giving to Shinra’s too-fast babble of questions; the other’s mouth is quirked at the corner, his eyes soft to match, and for just a moment Izaya can feel his gravity tilt, can feel the world reorienting itself to match the focus in Shizuo’s dark eyes.

“I’m glad,” Kadota says from the other side of the table, and they both jump and look at him at the same time. He’s not looking at them -- in fact his attention appears to be wholly on the pot in front of him -- but he goes on speaking as Shizuo and Izaya look up to grant him their attention. “For you two.” He jerks his chin at them without looking, the movement drawing Izaya’s focus unavoidably to the weight of Shizuo’s arm across the back of his chair, to the comfortable warmth of the other’s hand draped over his shoulder. “It’s been a while coming.”

Izaya can feel his face go hot, can feel his cheeks flushing with color he can’t restrain. Shizuo’s fingers at his shoulder tighten for a moment, then ease, the weight going so tentative Izaya can feel it the pressure forming a question against his skin.

Izaya takes a breath, then lets it out. “Thanks,” he says, and he sounds almost normal, sounds almost calm. Kadota looks up from the pot, his gaze steady on them both, and Izaya lets his mouth curve into a grin, lets amusement sparkle into his eyes. “I was about ready to give up waiting for Shizu-chan to get around to doing something.”

“ _Wow_ ,” Shizuo says, and Izaya looks away from Kadota to see the disbelieving stare Shizuo is giving him. “Did you really just blame that on _me_?”

“Mm.” Izaya leans back in his chair and presses his shoulders hard against the weight of Shizuo’s arm. “Why, do you want me to repeat it?”

“You,” Shizuo says, but his mouth is twisting and Izaya can see the shape of a laugh fighting against the curve of his lips. “You are such a _brat_.”

“I know,” Izaya says, and leans in fast, before the threat of Shizuo’s smile has a chance to break into a true laugh. He catches Shizuo’s mouth just as it curves, pressing the weight of his lips to the other’s for a moment of heat. It’s enough to purr pleasure down his spine, enough for Shizuo to huff surprise as he leans in closer; and then Shinra shouts protest about “Not allowed, not allowed!” and the pattern of Celty’s rapidfire typing draws Izaya back and away from the friction of Shizuo’s mouth against his. Shizuo is still blinking distraction from his eyes when Shinra catches at his shoulder to pull him back and into a very serious discussion about PDA and that if Celty refuses to allow Shinra to express his love for her with an audience that he and Izaya _certainly_ have to refrain. Celty’s visor is dark with the equivalent of a flush, her fingers pattering rapidfire over her keys, and Kadota is leaning back in his chair with the faintest suggestion of a smile on his face. Izaya catches the other’s gaze across the table and feels his mouth quirk on a grin of his own.

“It has been a while,” he says without trying to be heard over the rising speed and pitch of Shinra’s breathless explanation. “Thanks, Kadota.”

Shizuo’s hold on his shoulder is unflinching.


	60. See

“Hurry up, Shizuo,” Izaya calls across the distance of the apartment without lifting his gaze from the tumble of chat messages scrolling across his computer screen. “Aren’t you almost done yet?”

“Shut up,” Shizuo growls at him, the sound carrying more clearly than the words do. “Cooking takes time.”

“I’m starving,” Izaya tells him in complete contradiction to the perfectly comfortable slouch he’s adopted in his computer chair. “I’m likely to fade away where I sit if you don’t provide me with sustenance soon, Shizu-chan.”

“You are not,” Shizuo says, not sounding the least bit concerned at the possibility. When Izaya glances sideways towards the kitchen Shizuo’s not even looking at him; his attention is on the stove and the frying pan he has set over one of the burners. “You didn’t finish breakfast until an hour and a half ago, you can’t be that ravenous yet.”

“I have a fast metabolism,” Izaya declares. “Don’t you have anything to tide me over?”

“It’s almost done,” Shizuo tells him. There’s the hiss of cool liquid hitting the heated metal; Shizuo frowns at the pan, dragging it across the burner to coat the surface with the eggs he’s cooking. “I thought you said you had work to do.”

“I do,” Izaya says, looking back to his screen before Shizuo can look up and catch him staring. “I’m very busy and important, Shizuo, not all of us are so lucky to get by in life with just raw strength like you do.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Shizuo tells him, but he doesn’t sound angry, and Izaya grins at the computer screen as he reaches out to type a reply one-handed to one of the comments about the up-and-coming color gangs. “I’m not _getting by_ , I don’t even have a real job.”

“Is keeping me safe not enough work for you?” Izaya wants to know as he opens a private window with a pair of keystrokes and frames a question to the other user without really thinking through the words. “You should have told me you were bored, I would have planned a kidnapping for later this week.”

“ _No_ ,” Shizuo snaps, the word harsh with the intensity of sincerity. “No, this is perfectly fine.” There’s the scrape of metal-on-metal as he draws the pan off the stove; Izaya skims the reply he’s received in the chat before looking up to watch Shizuo tip the contents of the pan off onto a plate with surprising dexterity. “The less you get hurt the happier I am.”

“Aww,” Izaya says, turning away from the screen entirely so he can lean his elbow against the desk and smile across the room as Shizuo looks up through the fall of his hair. “That was almost sweet, Shizu-chan.”

Shizuo rolls his eyes. “Brat,” he says, and picks up the plate from the counter as he sets the pan down and emerges from the kitchen space. “You just like to make me worry.”

“Mm,” Izaya doesn’t answer. Shizuo cuts across the living room towards him to offer the edge of the plate; Izaya takes it with both hands, steadying the weight before Shizuo relinquishes his hold on the dish. He sets the plate down against the desk alongside the keyboard and glances back at his computer screen as he reaches to manage a bite.

“You shouldn’t eat over the computer,” Shizuo tells him before turning away to go back for his own plate. Izaya watches him go, trailing the motion of Shizuo’s shoulders with his gaze as the other walks; he waits to take another bite until Shizuo’s turned back around and can see the deliberate curve of his lips into a smirk as he pointedly doesn’t move.

“This is good, Shizu-chan,” Izaya tells him as Shizuo rolls his eyes and goes to take his own plate to the table in front of the couch. “If the personal bodyguard route doesn’t work out for you you could always make a profession out of being a live-in cook.”

“Right,” Shizuo says, dropping to sprawl across half the couch as he sets his plate on the table. “No one’s so anxious for ramen and omurice that they’d have someone live with them just to do their cooking.”

“I would,” Izaya says.

Shizuo huffs and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, except you can just take advantage of me whenever I’m…”

Izaya can see Shizuo’s shoulders go still, can see his entire body freeze in sudden understanding of the implication behind his words. He watches the awareness break over the other for a moment; and then he ducks his head and focuses all his attention on the plate in front of him as Shizuo looks up to stare at him from across the room.

“Wait,” Shizuo says, very deliberately, like he’s thinking about each syllable before he frames it. “Izaya.” Izaya can hear the click of his plate against the table, can almost make out the weight of the inhale Shizuo takes from across the room. “Are you asking me--”

“Yes, I am,” Izaya says, fast, and without looking up from his plate. He can feel his fingertips trying to tremble against the edge of his dish. “Do you need me to spell it out for you?”

There’s a pause, a moment of hesitation hanging taut in the air between them. Izaya’s heart is pounding in his chest, his breathing is catching in his throat; his hands are shaking visibly, now, he can’t steady them even when he tries. So he lets them shake, and he lets his throat close on panic, and then he lifts his chin and looks up to meet Shizuo’s gaze.

Shizuo is staring at him. Izaya expected that; he could feel the heat of the other’s attention from clear across the room. But he wasn’t expecting the soft shock parting Shizuo’s lips on shadow, and he wasn’t expecting the slack weight across the other’s shoulders, and he _absolutely_ wasn’t expecting how soft Shizuo’s eyes are as the other blinks at him.

“Izaya,” Shizuo breathes, and it should be too soft for Izaya to hear but the apartment is so quiet Izaya can hear the way Shizuo’s voice dips over the vowels, can hear the weight of warmth smoothing the rough edges of his name into something soft and sweet and gentler than he’s ever heard it. “I love you.”

Izaya can feel gravity topple out from under him, can feel his stomach drop into freefall as if he’s suddenly in orbit. His breath rushes out of him, an exhale hard like it’s making up for the air he was holding, and suddenly he’s glad for the support of the desk in front of him just for the backup it offers to his critically fragile sense of balance.

He swallows hard, fighting to regain some kind of moisture in his mouth. “That’s. Not pertinent to the conversation, Shizu-chan.”

Shizuo’s mouth quirks up at the corner, curving into a smile for just a moment. “Really,” he says.

“Yes,” Izaya manages. His throat is tense on emotion; when he opens his mouth the sound of the words in his voice is almost startling cast against the white-blank of his thoughts. “I’m in the middle of a job negotiation with you, you’re--”

“Izaya,” Shizuo cuts him off. He’s still smiling. “Shut up.”

Izaya shuts up. He stays at the desk for another moment, long enough to figure out which way is down and long enough to be reasonably sure of his footing when he stands; and then he pushes back from the desk, steadying himself until he can chance picking up his plate and making his way over to the couch. The plate goes on the table next to Shizuo’s, Izaya sits down against the cushions, and then Shizuo’s arm is coming around his shoulders, and Shizuo’s leaning in to smile against his hair, and Izaya has to shut his eyes before the burn of heat behind them coalesces into actual tears.

“Yes, I’ll move in with you,” Shizuo says, the words falling muffled and soft just behind Izaya’s ear. “I spend all my time here anyway.”

“There’s only one bedroom,” Izaya tells him without opening his eyes. “I’ll make you sleep on the couch if you keep me awake.”

“You’re the one who never sleeps,” Shizuo reminds him. His nose fits into Izaya’s hair, his mouth fits behind the other’s ear; Izaya can hear the breath he takes, can catch the sound of Shizuo’s deliberate inhale against the strands.

Izaya lifts his hand. His fingers catch Shizuo’s hair, the friction of his touch parting the pale strands like waves. Shizuo hums against his neck, low and purring and satisfied, and Izaya opens his eyes to blink out at the clear bright of the city sky on the other side of the windows.

“I love you too,” he says, carefully, slowly enough that he can hear his voice shimmer on the anxiety under the words. “Shizuo.”

There’s a fraction of hesitation in the rhythm of Shizuo’s breathing, a momentary pause; then his arm around Izaya’s shoulders tightens, his exhale rushes into a huffed laugh, and when he speaks it’s to say “I thought I was a monster?” as he pulls back and away from Izaya’s hair.

“That’s true,” Izaya says, still looking out the window as he feels his heartbeat thud hard against his ribcage. “I _am_ supposed to love humans.” Then he turns his head, carefully, looking up to meet the steady weight of Shizuo’s gaze on him, and he doesn’t look away as he speaks. “Aren’t you glad I make exceptions for you?”

Izaya can see Shizuo’s eyes go bright with amusement, can see the spread of his laugh a moment before the sound works its way free into the air. It makes Izaya smile, helpless to the impulse of the happiness in his veins, and then Shizuo reaches out to brace a hand at the back of Izaya’s head and leans in for a kiss, and Izaya doesn’t pull away, and he doesn’t shut his eyes until Shizuo does.


	61. Own

Izaya gets restless at night.

It’s not _always_ true. Sometimes he can go to bed with the sun and wake with the dawn, can fall into the pattern of a typical sleep cycle for a day, or two days, or a week. And it’s been easier to manage with the steady rhythm of Shizuo breathing beside him, easier to surrender to the weight of relaxation with Shizuo’s arm draped heavy around his waist or a hand spread warm over his hip. But even with months of practice insomnia sometimes catches Izaya unawares and pulls him to wide-eyed consciousness while Shizuo is warm and dreaming next to him, and Izaya knows himself well enough by now to know there’s no point in trying to chase down sleep again once it starts resisting. So he lies awake for an hour listening to the pattern of Shizuo’s inhales draw slower and deeper as he sinks farther into sleep, and finally, after the arm around him has gone slack with unconsciousness, Izaya shifts sideways and away, leaving Shizuo to frown and resettle against his side of the bed while Izaya pulls on the oversized weight of Shizuo’s pajama pants before making his way out to the living room.

The city is beautiful at night, even more lovely that it is during the day. Sunlight turns the metal and glass bright and blinding; the starlight softens the rough edges of the cityscape instead, makes it seems warm and inviting against the backdrop of the night sky. The moon is creeping over the horizon when Izaya looks for it, the rounded curve of it promising more illumination than the stars can offer; but Izaya turns away from the window before he can see it rise to full height, and collects his laptop and retreats to the relative comfort of the couch instead without bothering to turn on a light.

The forums are near-silent at this hour. There’s always something happening online just the same as in the city, but the pace slows from the frantic rush of the daylight hours, like the sleep that has caught the majority of the city’s inhabitants is seeping into the electronics of the internet as well. Izaya catches up on the posts in a matter of minutes, reads through the new articles in the first half-hour, and then he’s left to his own devices of filtering through compiled information while occasionally checking back in against the chat rooms that remain as stubbornly silent as the city on the other side of the windows. It’s easy to lose track of time with nothing but the blue-lit glow of his screen to keep him company, and when the sound of heavy footsteps brings Izaya back to the present it’s startling to realize it’s been over an hour since he abandoned the forums for his own notes.

“Izaya?” Shizuo’s voice is rough in his throat, dragging over the friction of sleep in spite of the low tone he’s adopted to suit the lateness of the hour. “Are you awake?”

“No,” Izaya says at ordinary volume and without looking up from his computer screen. “I’ve taken to sleepworking. It’s an immensely efficient use of my time.”

Shizuo huffs the outline of a laugh as his footsteps approach the back of the couch. “Why aren’t you in bed?”

“I just told you,” Izaya says, and tips his head back to look up at Shizuo blinking down at him from the other side of the furniture. “Why aren’t _you_?”  
“You were gone,” Shizuo says, a simple statement of fact without any need for further explanation.

“And you’re afraid of the dark?” Izaya suggests. “Really, Shizu-chan, the only monster anyone needs to be worried about is you.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo tells him, still slow enough on sleep that the order lacks any force in his throat. He swings a leg over the back of the couch and steps up and over the barrier to drop to the cushions next to the other. “Come back to bed, Izaya.”

“I’m working,” Izaya tells him, turning away to look back at his computer screen as Shizuo reaches out to ghost his fingers against the dark strands of hair at the back of his neck. “I can’t get anything done when you’re awake, you leave me no other option but to lose sleep for it.”

“You were working all afternoon,” Shizuo says. He leans in closer, his arm curving around the back of Izaya’s shoulders in a hold Izaya doesn’t move to push away. “You should sleep.”

“I can’t sleep,” Izaya says. His fingers are still over the keys but he’s not typing anymore; Shizuo’s forehead is bumping against the side of his head, the weight of the contact speaking to the other’s drowsy comfort better even than the rough edge on his voice, and Izaya can feel his attention drawing sideway, abandoning his focus on the details of the computer screen to center on the shift of Shizuo’s body pressing against his arm and the angle of the other’s boxers riding up across the curve of his thigh. “I’m not going to lie bored in bed just so you can use me as your own personal body pillow.”

“You’re not as comfortable as a pillow anyway,” Shizuo tells him. He reaches out for the top edge of the laptop, his fingers catching to weight against the screen. “There are better ways to get back to sleep than working.”

“I didn’t say I was trying to get back to sleep,” Izaya protests, but he draws his hands back as Shizuo pushes the lid of the computer down and lets the force of the other’s motion click the computer off into sleep mode as it shuts. “I can survive without rest for a single night, Shizuo.”

“No you can’t,” Shizuo says. He’s pushing in closer against Izaya’s head; there’s the catch of lips against his cheek, the suggestion of a kiss as Shizuo closes his hold against the laptop. “You’re even worse than usual when you’re tired, it’s unbearable.”

“I’m so glad you love me,” Izaya deadpans as Shizuo lifts the computer off his lap and stretches towards the table. “I can’t imagine how cruel you would be if you weren’t trying to be nice.”

“I do love you,” Shizuo tells him, setting the laptop down with remarkable care but close enough to the edge of the table that Izaya frowns at the somewhat precarious balance. “That doesn’t mean I’m going to lie to you when you’re being a brat.”

“Did you get all the way out of bed and come out here just to tell me how irritating you find me?” Izaya wants to know. He lifts his foot and reaches out to nudge the laptop back farther from the edge of the table; Shizuo reaches out with his free hand to wrap the weight of his hold around Izaya’s waist. “Can’t we at least save the divorce paperwork until the morning?”

“I’m not divorcing you,” Shizuo says against his hair. He’s moved down farther; his mouth is pressed against Izaya’s neck now, his lips sketching out a drag of heat just under the angle of the other’s jaw. Izaya bites his lip to keep from shuddering at the tickle of Shizuo’s breathing against his skin, but he’s pretty sure the other is near enough that the strain of his resistance is clear anyway. “Come back to bed.”

“You have sweet-talking down to a science,” Izaya tells him. He lifts his hand and reaches up to curl his fingers into Shizuo’s hair; Shizuo purrs something low and incoherent with pleasure against his throat, and this time Izaya’s shiver of response hits him too suddenly to restrain. “You interrupt my work, confiscate my laptop, insult my character, and then want me to just calmly come to bed with you?”

Shizuo shrugs without pulling away. “Either that or I’m staying out here with you.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Izaya tells him. Shizuo spreads his fingers wide against Izaya’s hip, the friction of the motion catching the other’s shirt and urging it up; Izaya’s back arches him forward, rocking his hips up off the couch by an inch. “Then _you’re_ not sleeping and _I’m_ not working, it’s the least productive of all options.”

“I’m not tired right now anyway,” Shizuo tells him. His hand has worked in under the hem of Izaya’s shirt; Izaya can feel Shizuo’s thumb pressing into a bracing hold just against the line of his hip while the other’s touch slides down to catch under the waistband of his pants. “And work can wait until the morning.”

“How would you know?” Izaya asks. He tightens his hold on Shizuo’s hair and braces his other hand against the couch so he can arc his hips up off the soft of the cushions and into Shizuo’s touch. “Maybe a new gang is forming this very moment and I’m missing out on it.”

“It’s not,” Shizuo says; and then, lifting his head from Izaya’s neck so he can look down at his hand: “Are these my pants?”

“Yes,” Izaya admits instantly. “They’re more comfortable than mine.”

“Oh,” Shizuo says, but he sounds distracted; he’s running his fingertips along the edge of the waistband where it’s clinging to Izaya’s hip, his touch so gentle Izaya can feel a shiver of sensation clinging in its wake. “Are they.”

“Yes.” Izaya rocks his hips forward again, an unsubtle reminder of what Shizuo has half-started doing. “Are you going to take them off me, or are you just going to stare at them?”

“I like them,” Shizuo says, and then he lifts his head, the nighttime shadows of his stare catching Izaya’s before his focus visibly dips down to the other’s mouth. Izaya can see his lashes shift, can see his head tilt to the side in unspoken expectation. “They look good on you.”

“They’re too big,” Izaya tells him, but he’s leaning closer anyway, tipping forward off the support of the couch and into the frame of Shizuo’s arms around him. His elbow catches over Shizuo’s shoulder, the angle holding them closer together, and Shizuo makes a low sound in the back of his throat and braces his hold at Izaya’s hip as he urges the other in against him. “None of your clothes fit me right.”

“It’s not about the fit,” Shizuo tells him, and Izaya watches his lashes dip, watches his lips part as he leans in for a kiss. It would be easy to pull back and deny him the clearly expected satisfaction of the contact, a simple matter of drawing away and frustrating his anticipation. Izaya leans in instead, tipping his head to meet Shizuo’s, and for a moment whatever else Shizuo might have said is lost to the friction of Izaya’s mouth on his. Shizuo tastes sweet, in that inexplicable way he always does when he hasn’t had a cigarette in a while; it makes Izaya’s chest tense, makes his fingers tighten, until it’s Shizuo who pulls back first and not Izaya.

“It’s about them being mine,” Shizuo finishes, bumping his nose against Izaya’s cheekbone as his fingers work in across the top edge of the pants again, suggesting more contact without committing to it.

“Really,” Izaya says, only a very little bit breathless with the heat pressing his breathing into a faster pace. “How very possessive of you.”

Shizuo huffs a laugh. “Shut up,” he says. “You’re the one who leaves bitemarks everywhere you can get your mouth.”

Izaya grins. “I never said I was perfect.” He reaches up to drape his other arm around Shizuo’s shoulders along with the first, pressing hard to steady his weight as he shifts forward to catch Shizuo’s thighs between the open angle of his own. Shizuo groans an exhale against the corner of his mouth, slides his hand in to brace against Izaya’s back instead, and when Izaya lets himself down into Shizuo’s lap he’s close enough to feel the press of the other’s cock hard against the inside of his thigh.

“Fuck,” Shizuo says, and he’s letting his hold at the back of Izaya’s neck go, sliding his arm free so he can push the weight of the too-large pajama pants just off Izaya’s hip. “Is it just that you like hurting me?”

“No.” Izaya tightens his hold at Shizuo’s hair and tugs the brace of his fingers into a fist as Shizuo works his touch down inside the soft of the clothing. Izaya shudders an exhale when Shizuo’s fingers brush against him; Shizuo groans and ducks his head to Izaya’s shoulder. “I just want you to be mine.” Shizuo’s curling his fingers into a grip around Izaya’s cock, is stroking up over him with the rushed pace he always adopts, as if they’re caught in some shadowy sidestreet and likely to get caught at any moment. Izaya would complain except that the burst of friction jolts up his spine like electricity and arches his back with an irresistible force, and when he drags at Shizuo’s hair the action is made more of reflex than intent. “So everyone knows.”

“They do,” Shizuo manages, but he sounds distracted, and his hips are rocking up in tiny reflexive jolts to match the stroke of his hand over the other. Izaya doesn’t even think he realizes he’s doing it; the action isn’t enough to effect movement, isn’t enough to do anything except flex breathless effort across the muscle of Shizuo’s legs pressed close to the inside of Izaya’s thighs. “Everyone does know, Izaya.”

“Everyone?” Izaya asks. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I am,” Shizuo growls. “Aren’t you?”

Izaya is. He knows what the forum posts say, know the rumors that have settled into the backdrop of Ikebukuro, the phrase _Orihara and Heiwajima_ like it’s a single word, or sometimes _that informant and his monster_ when the speaker is less flattering. But the chatter of the city dies to white noise in the back of his thoughts, fading to unimportance against the immediacy of the present: pale hair, soft mouth, the dark focus of eyes lidded heavy with arousal as much as with the lateness of the hour.

“Tell me,” he says.

Shizuo’s eyelashes dip, his lips part. For a moment his fingers are tight on Izaya’s hip, weighting enough to offer the threat of the bruises he’s always so careful to avoid.

“I’m yours,” Shizuo says. “Don’t you know that by now, Izaya?”

Izaya coughs a laugh. It burns behind his eyes like the bright of sunlight without the illumination of the dawn. “My sources have been unreliable.”

“You should find better sources,” Shizuo tells him.

“I should,” Izaya agrees. He unwinds his fingers from Shizuo’s hair anyway, letting his touch trail down the thin of the other’s shirt to the fabric of the boxers stretched taut over Shizuo’s straining cock. “Firsthand accounts are always best.”

Shizuo laughs, and he does rock up, then, hard enough that he gains some modicum of traction against the drag of Izaya’s fingers. Shizuo hisses at the pressure, Izaya’s breath catches, and then he’s reaching farther, curling his fingers down and under the waistband of Shizuo’s boxers to get to the bare skin underneath. Shizuo is hot to the touch, the head of his cock slick with precome; he makes a faint, desperate noise as Izaya’s fingers touch him, his legs tensing and then easing to a helpless tremor as Izaya closes his hand around the width of his cock. “God,” he says, and then, in a groan as Izaya twists his hand into a stroke: “ _Izaya_ ,” with his voice breaking on the syllables like he’s trying to make them last the longer on his tongue. His hold at Izaya’s hip tightens, weighting itself hard as a bruise, and Izaya arches in closer without thinking about it, without having to offer any conscious thought to support the need to be nearer to the sound of Shizuo’s voice on his name. Shizuo jerks up over him fast, like he’s just remembering what he’s supposed to be doing, and Izaya wants to shut his eyes to the sensation but he can’t, not when Shizuo’s head is angling back like that and his lashes are dipping so heavy at his cheekbones.

“Is it that good?” Izaya asks, aiming his voice for a purring near-laugh and hearing it come out as a groan in the back of his throat. “I’ve barely touched you and you look like you’re ready to go.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo tells him, managing to open his eyes enough to give Izaya a mock glare. Izaya twists his hand, slides his thumb up over the head of Shizuo’s cock, and the imitation of anger evaporates off the other’s face, giving way to a shuddering moan before he ducks forward to press his head to Izaya’s shoulder. “You have really nice hands.”

“Do I?” Izaya asks. He takes his next stroke slow, deliberate in the flex of his fingers, and Shizuo gasps into his shoulder, his hips rocking up hard enough to shift Izaya’s balance as well as his own. “Is _that_ the problem?”

“It’s not a problem,” Shizuo says into his shirt. His hand at Izaya’s hip slides away again, looping around the curve of the other’s spine; Izaya shivers at the slide of Shizuo’s touch up along his back, whimpers at the drag of Shizuo’s hand pulling over him. “I love your hands.”

“Really,” Izaya says. His voice is going breathless in his throat; when he ducks his head his inhales are coming so hard they ruffle against the tangle of Shizuo’s hair. “Did you used to fantasize about me touching you, Shizu-chan?”

“God,” Shizuo says, and he rocks up again, pushing himself so close to Izaya that their wrists catch and bump against each other. “Yeah, of course I did.”

“Like this?” Izaya wants to know. His vision is going hazy, his lashes weighing his eyes to darkness in spite of his best efforts to keep them open; all his skin is warm, his legs trembling with pointless effort as Shizuo’s touch works over him and uncoils sensation up his spine. “Did you come home from school and pretend it was my hands on your dick instead of your own?”

Shizuo groans. “Yeah,” he says, his hips bucking up to rock Izaya forward against the support of his shoulders. “All the time. For years.”

“Is it as good as you imagined?” Izaya asks. His voice is shaking, the motion of his hand is going jerky; he can’t hold to the thread of the conversation, can’t cling to the rhythm of his inhales, but Shizuo’s holding him steady and Shizuo’s hand is dragging up over him and it’s hard to think, hard to care, hard to focus on anything at all but the heat climbing up his spine to threaten his awareness. “Shizuo.”

“Better,” Shizuo says, immediately, with no hesitation in his tone or words. When he lifts his head Izaya can see how dark his eyes are, can see how desperate his breathing is coming past his parted lips. “You’re better.”

“Oh,” Izaya says, and then Shizuo’s hold tightens on him, and he can feel his toes curl, can feel his shoulders tense on the premonition of pleasure. His mouth comes open, his inhale comes hard, and Shizuo’s gaze goes intent, his hand at Izaya’s back pulling hard to drag him in closer. The motion of Izaya’s hand stalls, his breathing catches; and then he shudders, and heat crushes over him, and when he groans it comes out as “ _Shizuo_ ” hot and shaking in his throat. His fingers tense, his grip tightening involuntarily against Shizuo’s length, and Shizuo’s lashes flutter, his whole face going slack for a moment of startled pleasure. Izaya gasps an inhale, and braces himself at Shizuo’s shoulder, and then he’s moving again, his strokes made fast and clumsy by the shivering aftershocks humming under his skin. He’s quivering against the support of Shizuo’s arm, still gasping for air it’s hard to find, but Shizuo’s head is going back, and his gaze is drifting out of focus, and Izaya is staring at him like he’s never seen him before, like the faint illumination of the moonlight is making Shizuo’s familiar features even more beautiful than they usually are. Shizuo’s breath hisses, his eyes press shut for a moment; and then he’s tensing, and groaning, and coming across Izaya’s hand, his whole body shaking under the force of the other’s touch. It makes Izaya shudder again with a last shock of sensation purring up along his spine, and then Shizuo gasps a breath and lifts his head, and Izaya can’t breathe except to lean in and kiss the soft off Shizuo’s pleasure-parted lips.

They linger there for a minute, Izaya feeling his heartrate ease in his chest as Shizuo kisses himself back into the languid calm of exhaustion; then Shizuo draws back, and looks for the tissues at the table, and Izaya is left to drape both arms around Shizuo’s neck and fit a kiss against the soft of his hair while the other works through the intricacies of cleaning them up. He feels drowsy, now, heavy with sleep laying itself against his shoulders like a coat, and a yawn catches him unawares as Shizuo tugs to urge the weight of the pajama pants back over Izaya’s hips. There’s a laugh, a huff of air more felt than heard, and then Shizuo’s arm back around Izaya’s waist, his mouth against the other’s shoulder: “Let’s go back to bed.”

“Mm,” Izaya hums, and shifts his leg to angle around Shizuo’s hip. “I don’t want to move.”

“You’ll be more comfortable.”

“I’m comfortable now,” Izaya says. He tips his head closer and lets his forehead press against Shizuo’s shoulder; Shizuo slides his arm up to brace across his back. “You can carry me if you want me back in bed.”

“Brat,” Shizuo says, warm on the word like it’s an endearment. “I ought to just leave you out here.”

“Yes.” Izaya nuzzles closer against Shizuo’s neck, breathes in against the warmth of his skin. “But you won’t.”

“I won’t,” Shizuo agrees, and presses his other arm around Izaya’s back. “Hold on.”

“Don’t drop me,” Izaya suggests, and Shizuo huffs a laugh and gets to his feet from the couch as easily as if he were standing up himself without the extra burden of Izaya pressed against him. Izaya’s gravity dips, his balance tipping precariously; but Shizuo’s arms are around him, and then Shizuo’s straightening to move towards the stairs, and Izaya lets the weight of his head rest heavy against the support of Shizuo’s shoulder under him.

He’s half-asleep by the time Shizuo tips them onto the bed, so drowsy it’s hard to manage the tangle of blankets under him. There’s a rumble of sound, Shizuo laughing as he reaches out to help straighten out the sheets and covers, and then the blankets are over Izaya’s shoulders, and Shizuo is fitting in against him, and Izaya slides backwards to press flush against Shizuo’s chest as the other’s arm settles warm and heavy around him to hold him steady.

He’s asleep before Shizuo is.


	62. Match

_I’m happy to meet you all_ , the blue chat box scrolling across Izaya’s phone proclaims. _Does this count as our first real get together?_

 _That seems reasonable_ , the grey icon responds. _An in-person gathering would be much harder to coordinate_.

Izaya huffs a laugh. _Face-to-face meetings are almost impossible for some people_ , he fires back.

“What’s so funny?” Shizuo wants to know. He’s leaning against Izaya’s shoulder against the couch, reading the scrolling text messages as they file across the phone screen; it’s too small for two people to easily read, but Izaya’s not about to protest how close Shizuo has to press to make out the font.

“This,” Izaya tells him without looking up from the screen. “That’s Celty.”

“Setton?” Shizuo asks. “How do you know?”

“I can’t believe you’re still asking me that question.” Izaya types out a reply littered with a chain of overexcited emoticons at the end and hits _send_ without pausing to read it over. “It’s my job to know everything, Shizu-chan.”

“Don’t call me that,” Shizuo says with perfect equanimity. “Who’s this other guy?”

“The founder,” Izaya says immediately. “He’s pretending he’s not but he’s the one who started the Dollars in the first place. I’m pretty sure he’s in the city now; I’ll have to figure out who he is once he starts engaging the other gangs.”

“The Dollars,” Shizuo repeats, shifting the weight of his arm around Izaya’s shoulders. “That’s kind of a stupid name.”

“Better get used to it,” Izaya says. He lets himself tip sideways to press hard against Shizuo’s chest; Shizuo’s fingers trail up over his shoulder and into his hair to ruffle against the strands. “You’re going to be a member yourself soon.”

“Am I,” Shizuo deadpans. “And why exactly would I join a gang?”

“Because I’m in it,” Izaya says, and looks up from his screen to smile at the other. Shizuo’s watching him instead of the chat room, his gaze steady on Izaya’s face; for all the growl under his voice his mouth is soft, the line of it gentle enough to suggest a smile even without the actual presence of one. “You can’t leave me alone, you have no idea what kind of trouble I’d get up to.”

Shizuo’s mouth quirks up at the corner. “Yeah, I can imagine.”

“Can you?” Izaya asks. “I would probably own the whole of Ikebukuro by now, if you weren’t here to keep me in check.”

“I’m not keeping you from joining gangs,” Shizuo points out. “I don’t think I’m doing a very good of keeping you out of trouble.”

“I’m thinking about taking over from the founder,” Izaya says. “What do you think, do you want to be the shadow power behind the throne with me?”

“No,” Shizuo says, and reaches out to close his hand at the top of Izaya’s phone. “I want you to put your phone down and let me distract you for a half hour.”

“I’m in the middle of a conversation,” Izaya protests, tugging his phone sideways and free of Shizuo’s hold. “I can’t just abandon my friends, Shizu-chan.”

“It’s a chat room,” Shizuo tells him. He reaches down instead of stretching out for the phone again, his fingers catching and dipping under the hem of Izaya’s shirt. “You can leave whenever you want.”

“You don’t understand the etiquette at all,” Izaya complains, turning his head to make of show of the attention he’s paying to the screen as Shizuo’s nose presses behind his ear, as Shizuo’s fingers slide up under his shirt and across his stomach. “You can’t just drop out of the chat without a good reason.”

“Mmhm,” Shizuo hums against the side of Izaya’s neck. “Do you not have a good reason?”

Izaya resolutely maintains his attention on the phone screen. “No,” he says, managing to sound offhand about it. “I’m not doing anything more important at the moment.”

“No?” Shizuo’s fingers spread wide across Izaya’s stomach, pressing against his skin for a moment before working up across the ticklish line of his ribs. “You don’t have anything better to do than talk to strangers in a chat room?”

“They’re not _strangers_ ,” Izaya protests, but it’s a weak rebuttal and he knows it; the words are made frail on the hiss of his breathing struggling in the back of his throat as Shizuo’s hand slides up under his shirt and traces out the midline of his chest. “Celty’s our friend, Shizuo. Remember her? Black motorcycle, insufficient safety gear, no head?”

“Don’t be a brat,” Shizuo says. His exhale is warm against Izaya’s neck; for a moment his lips catch and press into a kiss. “Put your phone down and stop causing trouble for five minutes.”

“Five minutes?” Izaya manages. Shizuo’s hand slides across his chest, the friction purring heat down his spine and sticking his exhale into a hiccuping groan; his back arches, his body lifting to press hard against Shizuo’s touch. “Is that really all the time you need?”

“ _Izaya_ ,” Shizuo growls, the word low and rough against Izaya’s neck. “Put the internet away.”

“Fine,” Izaya says, reaching out with one arm to hold himself steady around Shizuo’s shoulders while he types a reply one-handed over his keyboard. “Give me five seconds, Shizu-chan, you have no patience at all.”

“I _am_ being patient,” Shizuo tells him as his hand slides down over Izaya’s waist, his touch dragging with it a weight of heat so strong Izaya shudders and nearly drops his phone. “I could be _really_ trying to distract you.”

“Oh?” Izaya presses the last keystroke on his message: _gotta run, my boyfriend wants me ;)_ and exits out of the chatroom before letting his phone fall to the floor alongside the couch. “What would you be doing if you were _actually_ trying?”

“I can show you,” Shizuo suggests, pushing hard enough at Izaya’s shoulder that they both fall sideways over the soft of the cushions.

“Okay,” Izaya agrees, and turns his head to smile up at Shizuo as the other draws back to look down at him. “Show me, senpai.”

Shizuo’s laugh is bright in the air, but Izaya thinks his own smile might be an even match for it.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Remembrance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7120429) by [Dayzaya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dayzaya/pseuds/Dayzaya)
  * [Misspelled](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7268050) by [izanyas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/izanyas/pseuds/izanyas)




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